Every now and then, something jumps up and smacks you in the face with the realization that you are, in fact, someone’s mother.
Oh sure, there’s the initial “taking babies home from the hospital” bit. But I know every single one of us has moments in the first several months that we think, “when are their parents going to show up and take them to their real home?” And there are big things, like taking a sick or hurt kid to the emergency room and having to be responsible and fill out forms and make decisions.
But sometimes it’s the small, unexpected things that make me sit up and realize I’m not a college kid anymore, I’m not footloose and fancy-free in my mid-twenties. I’m in my thirties, and I am someone’s mother. Mom. Like my mom.
This week, it happened when I sewed a patch on Daniel’s karate uniform. Doesn’t that just seem like something someone’s mom would do?
It happened when I held a couple of bobby pins in my mouth and tried to get Rebecca’s hair to stay put for her dance recital. Fine and wispy, just like me. Sorry, kid.
It happened when I spent most of said recital in the hallway with Ellie, who found the middle school auditorium entirely too hot, too crowded, and too loud. She had a point.
Anyone else have a funny “I’m actually someone’s parent!” moment? It’s not just me, right?