My kids may not believe this now, mostly because they’ve seen me dance in the kitchen unannounced, misuse their slang with tragic confidence, and get entirely too excited when everyone is home safe and the dishwasher is loaded correctly.
In their defense, I do give them plenty of material.
But there was a time.
A real time. Before I was someone’s mom, I was out late, laughing too hard, making questionable decisions with excellent confidence, and hitting the New York City club scene where they knew me at the door.
Okay, there was no red carpet with my name on it, but getting waved in without standing there like a sad little velvet rope hostage? That counted for something.
And the hair? Please. I rocked whatever awful trend was happening at the time. Perms, frosting, dark roots, light pieces, mullets, you name it. If a salon could damage it, tease it, spray it, or convince me it was “the look,” I probably tried it and walked out like I had just been personally styled for MTV.
I had the hair, the friends, the attitude, and apparently the belief that a two-seater car was more of a suggestion than an actual seating limit. At one point, I had four friends piled in, which I’m sure felt wildly fun and spontaneous at the time. Bopping around town without a care in the world, or a seatbelt.
So yes, there was a version of me who moved through the world with a little swagger, a quiet confidence, and absolutely no idea that one day my own children would use it all against me.
And then life did what life does.
It softened some edges, humbled a few opinions, handed me kids who now critique my every move, and slowly turned my late nights into early mornings. It turned my tiny outfits into comfortable jeans, and my big plans into, “Does anyone need anything while I’m up?”
And honestly, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Because cool changes.
It turns into knowing who needs space and who needs a snack. It turns into making a home where everyone can fall apart and be loved anyway. It turns into holding your head high through every season, even the ones that stretch you, rearrange you, and make you wonder how the same person who once got waved into clubs is now deeply invested in sitting on her couch looking for her next binge show.
She’s still in here.
That girl didn’t disappear. She just grew into this version of me: older, softer in some places, stronger in others, still laughing, still quietly confident, still mildly ridiculous, and still very much alive.
So when my kids cringe, I let them.
Someday they’ll have their own kids cringing at them, and I hope they remember me dancing in the kitchen, using the wrong words, telling the same stories, and proving that you don’t stop being yourself just because life gives you new roles to play.
I was cool once.
And honestly, I still kind of am.
Also, I would like to personally apologize to the parents of the four kids who were once piled into my two-seater. That was not cool.
