Me, as a preschool mom.
Me, as an 8th grade mom.
I dragged my weary carcass out of the car and ran into the grocery store. It was 7:55 am. If all went as planned, I would have 4 large bottles of sparkling water and be out the door by 8:00 am. I ran the aisles as if I were in a sprint triathlon.
Luckily, I had sat bolt upright in my bed at 3:30 am and remembered that I was supposed to bring sparkling water for our teacher celebration at school. Girls in tow with store bought bagels and juice, I raced my mini van to school and got everyone and everything there on time.
Deflated and a bit defeated, I carefully drove my car around the school parking lot.
There, in the glistening morning sunshine, were all of these cute, spunky young moms with their little kids. Both parent and offspring were skipping on their way into school.
I was crackly, old lizard mother. I used to see those 8th grade moms and stare with wonder. Why didn't those strange creatures volunteer for everything?
Face it. They were experienced. They were smarter. I was young and dumb, and now I know. The game of life, oh so bittersweet.