For those of you that don’t know already, I had my first two children at the age of 18. Yes, I was a member of the often scandalized, ever-politicized “Teen Mothers Club.” Now, being a member of this elite club has had its pros and cons. For example:
Pro: You get a lot of attention from your high school peers
Con: You get a lot of attention from your high school peers
Pro: Your babies get a ton of cute stuff at their baby shower
Con: You get NOTHING but an aching hooch and a pair of sore breasts, maybe a new nursing bra if you’re lucky
Pro: Even though you have children, you’re still a technically a teenager, so you can get away with the more idiotic parenting moves, such as giving your children hot chocolate in their bottles at night.
Con: Since you have children, you can’t get away with most of the idiotic things you were doing before you got pregnant
Anyway, you got the picture. There is one more thing that I saw as a bonus of being a child-holding member of the “Teen Mothers Club,” and that was the fact that somehow, maybe by osmosis, most teen mothers I knew seemed to be pretty damn cool. I know, that sounds so immature, but all the girls that got pregnant the same year I did were totally cute and fun to be around, which, now that I think about it, probably led to them getting pregnant in the first place. So, I pretty much knew that when my children were born, I was obviously a part of this group of “cool” parents.
As a cool parent my responsibilities included, but were not limited to: dressing stylishly, dressing my child stylishly, listening to mainstream music and/or classic rock such as Led Zepplin and The Doors, losing my baby weight before my children turned one, talking to my child as if they were a good friend from my school days, and buying my child booze and condoms so they didn’t get it elsewhere.* These seemed like easy enough responsibilities, right? I mean, it wasn’t like I needed to learn how to balance a checkbook or anything like that. I figured that since I was a cool parent, and could fulfill my obligations as a cool parent, I would stay a cool parent forever. Little did I know that the little bundles of joy that gave me my cool parent status could rip it away from me faster than I could say, “Hey kids, want to go to a Coldplay concert?” Sadly, that time came not too long ago…
I remember it like it was yesterday, but it wasn’t yesterday, it was a few weeks ago. Colton had broken one of the tuners on his sweet, sweet guitar and was hassling me to take him to Guitar Center so he could pretend he was going to buy some new tuners, but come up short at the cash register and sucker me in to buying them. I finally had some free time so Colton and I took off on a Mommy and Son outing to the world of strings, cymbals, and guys with long, unkempt noggins.
As we walked in, I noticed there was a sign on the door that read, “PLEASE CHECK ALL BAGS AT THE FRONT DESK UPON ENTRANCE.” I guess it was one of those 9/11 security precautions, as I have read on Pajamas Media or some blog that Al Qaeda members are targeting Guitar Centers for their high-quality, reasonably-priced musical merchandise. What? You haven’t heard that? They hate
everything about America, even our Guitar Centers, those sons-of-bitches. Everything I tell you! Anywhoo, I digress.
So, I approach the mangy-skulled guy at the front desk and say, “Here’s
my bag.” The guy replies, “Oh, you’re fine. Just don’t stuff anything in the bag.” “Okay,” I respond. Then, with a smirk the guy goes, “Your bag is big enough though.” Now, the guy has a point. My bag is huge. Like, Hollywood huge. I got it mostly because it was large and sturdy, but also cool looking so it wouldn’t be an obvious diaper bag. Apparently, the guy didn’t know my bag was used for nappies and small snack crackers, so I enlightened him, “Oh, well, it’s more of a diaper bag,” I say with a smile and a Sarah Palin wink. The guy gets a funny look on his face, points at Colton and says, “For him?” Colton rolls his eyes; I give a courtesy chuckle for the joke, and walk away mumbling something about leaving the baby in the car. Now, I didn’t think that the whole bag-joke episode was that embarrassing, but I’m not an 11-year-old kid either.
Well, Colton gets all the guitar gear he needs and we leave Guitar Center. On the way home Colton gently says, “No offense Mom, but I like going to Guitar Center better with Dad.” Whaaaaaaa? I choke on my cool-parent latte and ask him why. He tells me that I didn’t know what I was talking about when I was trying to tell the salesman what tuners he was looking for, and then he adds, “Let me ask you something—how many Moms did you see in there with their kids?” Hmmm, when I thought about it I realized that I was the only Mom in the store, and with a large bag to boot!**. I asked Colton simply, “What are you saying? Are you telling me you’re embarrassed by me? Am I an uncool Mom?” I held my breath for a moment. Normally the answer to that question would have been a resounding “No!” followed by a list of a few things that made me cool Mom. Not this time. This time his answer was a drawn out, “Well…..” I didn’t need anymore information. The damage had been done. I realized, that night at the Guitar Center I crossed over into un-cool, embarrassing Mom territory.
I’m sure there are a few things that I could do to redeem my status as a cool parent, maybe throw the kids a boy/girl party or buy them some songs off of the iTunes, but I’m pretty sure once you become un-cool, you pretty much stay un-cool. It’s like catching pneumonia, once you get it you’re more susceptible to it. I’m susceptible to un-coolness.
Ah well, I guess I should just throw in the designer jeans and start wearing elastic-banded polyester slacks, hush puppies, and Winnie-the-Pooh t-shirts. ***
So the moral of this story is, to all you parents out there, young and old alike, let this be a lesson to you: Hold dear every moment your child looks at you with admiration, photograph in your memory the times when your child asks to borrow your jeans or your Tom Petty CD, and never, ever, ever forget that eventually you’ll probably mortify your child with your lameness, but you’ll always be a cool parent in your own eyes.
*Since I became an uncool parent before the boys reached their teen years, I have no obligation of fulfilling any of the responsibilities listed anymore, including the one about the booze and condoms, so stop dialing Social Services.
**Oh, and did I mention that I had spilled a little of my beverage on my sweater? I did. Near my one of my bosoms no less.
***Just kidding, I’ll never dress like that! I’d wear a muumuu to the boys’ parent teacher meetings before I wear a WtP t-shirt! Gag!
