Walk of Shame

For a mom like me, who is happily married, the walk of shame means something entirely different than where your dirty mind is right now. You should be ashamed of yourself.

To me, the walk of shame is pretty much every day I take the kids to school. For several reasons.

One, because I'm likely (likely, haha) still in my pajamas. You know, last night's clothes. My hair looks like I just stuck a fork in an outlet, or maybe just took a few lightening bolts to the head. Sometimes, if  I'm feeling really ambitious, you'll see me with a sparkly headband. My plan is for the sparkles to keep your attention so you don't see the horrifying image that is naturally  curly hair on day two after a rough night of sleep. I'm probably wearing some type of yoga pants or capris that I can assure  you have never been to yoga. (They do go to the gym, but definitely not to yoga.) They don't make sunglasses big enough to cover my whole face, which is kind of disappointing. Even my Laguna Beach sunglasses aren't big enough. I probably have flip flops on, maybe they match, maybe they don't, you'll never know. I won't get out of the van. For any purpose. Unless maybe if it's on fire.

Two, let's go back to that van that I wouldn't get out of. Yes, the van. The VAN. Sounds worse every time I say it. Part of me loves my mini-van. And I will tell you a million times how much those little buttons mean to me. How I love when my hands are full, I can open every door with a push of my thumb. The kids can get in and out without me worrying they are door dinging every single car we park next to (have you met Callie??). And I love that we can ride comfortably, have room for extra stuff and extra kids or friends if need be. But part of me hates it. The part that thinks I still had an ounce of cool left. Had. Don't have anymore. Part of your soul dies when you buy a mini-van (if you were like me and SWORE you would NEVER drive one.) If you love your grocery getter, I am happy for you. I want you to be happy. I'm not judging you. I am judging me. There's a cooler in my mini-van. It's kind of neat. I kept chicken cold the other day while I picked the kids up from school. I've kept my breastmilk cold. (Probably not what the Honda makers were thinking would be in there when they added a cooler, but thanks anyway, Honda makers. It is too small to hold a bottle of wine though. Take note, Honda makers.) But part of me can't help thinking, as I'm driving down the road, passing all of the cool moms in their SUV's, that when I push that button to let the kids out, my soul is jumping out of the door with them. It has everything to do with the van. Nothing to do with the fact that I might be listening to Hanson or Ace of Base.

Three, there's a really good chance I haven't brushed my teeth yet. Walk of shame worthy. Enough said.

So if you see me in my van in the morning, I will wave and smile at you. You can wave and smile but don't make eye contact please. Just look at the sparkles. Keep your eyes on the sparkles.