On the way home from the fireworks Friday night, I liked the song that came on the radio. I turned it up, rolled down the windows some more, and started rockin' out. From the back seat we hear, "Oh no...oh no...oh no!" I looked at hubby. He read my mind.
He grabbed his sunglasses, put them on, and turned his cap backwards. We both reclined our seats and did the "I'm too hot to bend my arm" pose, hubby on the steering wheel, me on the passenger side.
|We got it goin' on.|
The oh no's in the back seat turned into, "Roll up the windows! People know me!" from Ginger Girl. Which only fueled my fire and I called out whose Mother I am while doing my awesome car seat dance.
What she said next was not expected: "Please stop! You don't have swag!"
I was informed I do not have swag. From my 11 year old.
When we got home, I looked for support in the wrong place. The very wrong place. My 14 year old told me, "No, you do not have swag! You're too old to have swag."
We'll show them, hubby & I telecommunicated. I looked at the girls & said, "Tomorrow I'm bringing my swag to the parade." The very parade that those 2 precious children were a part of. The parade where they would be on their softball teams' float along with all of their team mates.
They begged. They pleaded. They cried. They bribed.
It all fell on deaf ears. Ears that are selectively deaf to children. Take note Mothers of many young children: this is a very handy skill to work on now so that you have it perfected for the later years.
At the parade...
|I saw the girls' float coming.|
That's my Ginger Girl tossing candy.
|I announced the sighting.|
Hubby got his swag on.
|I stood up, yelled my girls' names,|
and danced my No Swag Dance. Duck
lips and arm out like in the car.
|Ginger Girl said she didn't know who|
we are. Blondie screamed and hid on the float.
We yelled their names.
I yelled, "It's your mama, girls!"
and "Those are my babies!"
|As their float continued down the road, I sat|
down and the adults around us said
we are totally awesome parents.
And that, my dears, is what happens when you tell me I am too old to have swag.