“Ugh, I thought you were going to be normal!” my daughter said in the parking lot of Walgreens.
“What?” I questioned, “I thought I was fine.”
“No, you weren’t. You asked us if we could just stop shaving our armpits so you didn’t have to pay for the razors.”
She did have a point. Those razors were $15 after the $5 off coupon. I share the bathroom with my husband’s (don’t tell him though)I can just use his, but they don’t have that luxury. Plus, I was more saying it as a joke to the cashier and person behind me. They knew that I didn’t really want armpits as hairy as their dad’s. Not that there’s anything wrong with women having hairy armpits, there’s not, it’s just not my thing. If it’s your thing good on you, because you are saving LOTS of money by not shaving.
The situation at hand though is that I’m weird and it embarrasses my daughters and there seems to be nothing I can do about it.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think I was being weird,” I apologized.
“Grrrr. You don’t even know.” was her response as she stomped to the car.
She really did growl but I think that she was smiling.
I wondered, is the issue that she doesn’t want me to talk to people or does she not want people thinking about her armpits? I remember when I was a teenager and I thought that everyone was looking at me (which is developmentally appropriate behavior, by the way) I certainly didn’t want anyone thinking that I even had armpits, let alone have them thinking about my armpits. Also, I did not want my mother talking to anyone that I knew or might know or could come into contact with. I have no idea why. I guess I didn’t want them knowing I had a mother just like I didn’t want them knowing I had armpits.
I am not equating mothers to armpits. Not at all.
I think I really just don’t even know. That’s the age I’ve arrive at. I talk about things that no one else would talk about, maybe. Except when I talk to other mom’s I know that I’m not the only one.
Like, I’m not the only one whose favorite feature on the minivan is the window lock because it’s fun to lock the windows, so they can’t roll them down after I, ahem, break wind. I am not the only one.
I’m not the only one who talks to complete strangers about the best recipes you’ve tried lately because they are not strangers after you’ve stood in line for 30 minutes.
I’m not the only one who thinks the best acoustics for singing Journey songs is the public restroom at the library.
The thing that my kids don’t know is that motherhood makes your weird. You may start out pretty normal ( I did not start out normal so I am not speaking from experience here) but after a couple of years of sleep deprivation, leaking milk, and being bombarded by the smell of poopy diapers you can become so desperate for adult conversation that you forget what it’s like. Then, when you finally make it around other adults you just kind of spew weirdness. Eventually you embrace the weirdness and find yourself locking your children in the van with your own really bad smelling fart for fun.
At least that’s how it happened for me.
For you the path to weird may be different, but I guarantee if you have a child when they become a teenage person that will mutter at you, “You don’t even know,” and you won’t.
You won’t even know.