"Not cool, Mom"

We climbed into the van; Laurèn and Yohannes stashed their backpacks and got their seat belts on. 

“How was your day?” I asked.

“Good,” said Yohannes.

“Okay,” said Laurèn.

I backed up and joined the line-up to get out of the parking lot. We sat.

“I’m hungry,” Yohannes said. “Did you bring any snacks?”

“No,” I answered.

“Awwwww….. I’m so hungry. Why didn’t you bring any snacks?” he whined.

“Because it is only a three minute drive home, and you can get a snack when we get home” I said.

He moaned. We sat and waited.

The car in front of me moved, and I rolled slowly forward and stopped again. 

"Hey guys," I interjected into the silence, “You know what makes me sad?”

“No, what?” said Yohannes.

“Well…” I sighed.

“WHAT?” said Yohannes.

Laurèn, who was in the front seat next to me, stared sidelong at me.

“Well,” I started again. I huffed. “You guys don’t think that I’m cool anymore.”

A pause. I knew what they were thinking; we never thought you were cool Mom.

I slowly inched the car around the first corner and continued to talk. “It’s just that when you guys were little, you used to think that I was cool, and you thought that I had all the answers… You know what you said to me once, Yohannes?”

“What?”

“You said, ‘Only computers and moms know everything, right mom?’ and I smiled and said, ‘You might be right.’”

“Mmmm…” he answered, and I could imagine his eyebrows rising in agreement.

Laurèn, who was still studying me, said, “What’s wrong mom?”

“Oh, nothing, it’s just that you used to love it when I sang and danced; you used to clap your hands, and join right in.”

“Weeell, I still love your singing” she said, her voice rising at the end.

“Mmmmm, but what about my dancing? This morning when I was dancing around the bathroom, you backed away from me, with your hands up in front of you?”

“Mom. You still have a lot to learn about dancing”—spoken like the 12-year-old expert that she is.

“Really!?”—I glanced at her, “Really?”—a little softer, “But, I have my own funky style—nobody dances like me.”

“You got that right,” she quipped.

I reached over and pinched her, which just made her giggle.

It was my turn to make the left hand turn out of the parking lot, so I pulled into traffic and the conversation was left behind us, like exhaust.

It is stunning to me that these people—who once thought me to be everything: funny, smart, pretty and (yes!) cool—look at me with different eyes. I didn’t even see the “rose-colored glasses” come off. Without thought or intention, on their part, I have become an embarrassment. They no longer appreciate my random singing and break out dancing. As soon as the first note passes my vocal chords, or the first rhythm quivers through my body, they scatter like flies swished away. However, they always hover in the distance, gathered together, peeking around a corner, grabbing onto each other and watching me. They point at me, and say things like, “O-Mi-Gawd” or “Can you believe her?” or “Look at that!” And most of the time, their expressions of embarrassment are accompanied by full, and melodic belly laughs. So, as long as I am okay making a spectacle of myself (and I am, if the groove is in me), I am still bringing great joy to their lives—they just don’t know it!