We were at Lowe’s. Me in my mom-jeans-uniform. My teen son in his Chubbies one.
It had been one of those weeks, you know. Everything was dying: the kitchen fridge, the garbage disposal, my will to “adult.”
So when I finally found the Lowe’s waste disposal savant — well, I nearly swooned: This guy knew everything about everything relative to garbage disposal. And I desperately needed one. (Mark that under “statements you never thought you’d make at 21.”)
As we walked out of Lowe’s, cradling our new InSinkErator, giddy at the thought of higher horsepower, my son blurts, “Oh. My. Gosh. Mom, that Lowe’s dude was totally rizzin’ you up! He was such a rizzler. That was crazy!”
Translation (for those who don’t speak Middle School Boy): “That Lowe’s dude was flirting with you. He was such a flirt! [SUBTEXT: That’s crazy that anyone would flirt with you. Gross! You’re a mom!]”
As I gently tucked my new disposal in the trunk, I reflected for a minute: Was I flattered to be rizzed up? Or insulted that my kid thought it shocking? Both.
I mean, I have a pulse.
Don’t get me wrong. Being a mom is *the* most important thing I have ever done or will ever do. But “Mom” is not the only thing I am. We are not one-dimensional creatures.
I once asked my kids: “Guess my major in undergrad?!” Them: “Cleaner!” . . . I mean, it’s not a terrible guess. My toilets do shine. Still, “House Keeper” was not the dream when I was a starry-eyed freshman.
Teenage Heroine
What I do recall is being a narcissistic teen who knew nothing about everything.
When my mom turned 40, she got a surprise party and a KitchenAid mixer. I watched her leave that evening. Gorgeous. Glowing. In a cloud of Estée Lauder Pleasures.
So, that’s 40, I mused and popped in my retainer for the night: Red lipstick, black corduroy party pants, and a new appliance. Lame.
And in my foolish heart, I vowed: I will be so different.
You see, at 16 I dreamed in unicorns and Lifetime movies.
I planned to be an actress or a writer or a lawyer. Maybe all three.
But definitely the heroine of my story.
A story that included a half dozen kids and a Ken Doll husband — who would marvel at my wit and wisdom. Tucked snug in a peaceful home where dental crowns and fridge repairs and garbage disposals were never mentioned. EVER.
I would do big things. But still manage to be perfectly present. I would affect change. And not just versions of chicken for dinner.
Just try to give this liberated woman an appliance for any holiday. I dare you.
Present Life
And then, *ahem* I became a mom.
The four people who demanded versions of chicken for dinner cared little nothing about my graduate work. And as flaky fridges came and went, the merits of dental crowns — debated and heating elements for dying dryers arrived by Amazon angel — that liberated woman transformed.
And thank God.
What small dreams I once dreamed. What shallow hopes I had. My 16-year old fiction has nothing on my reality.
And that’s the plot twist I never saw coming.
What My Mom Always Knew?
That April night in 1995, my mom arrived home in her rusty, white ol’ swagger wagon. But she had everything: A family to love. Friends who loved her. And a mixer that still works today.
She knew it then. I know it now.
So maybe my kids are shocked by the “rizz” I receive. (I mean, same.) Maybe their view of me now is slightly one-dimensional. But that is okay.
Because I have everything too: A family to love. Friends who love me. And a brand new InSinkErator (thanks to my Lowe’s rizzler).
“She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come . . . Her children rise up and call her blessed.”
— Proverbs 31: 25, 28
