The Bathroom Academy Awards

I want to look like Scarlett, jam like Joan, cook like Julia, and write like Lena.  Ultimate cool mom combo.  However, I look a little like Joni Mitchell,

I know one chord on the guitar, enchiladas are my only specialty, and writing a novel or a full length film are at least 18 years away, depending on that third kid.  Cool, but not ultimate cool.  I am a mother.  I am always amazed at how defining that term is.  All the people I look up to and aspire to be more like will never make me feel like the perfect version of me.  The perfect version of me will forever begin with being  "mommy" to my children...and maybe my annual subscription to US Weekly.    

I always knew I was going to grow up to be that glamorous actress blubbering thank you's into the mic at the Oscar's.  I would practice my acceptance speech in the bathroom mirror multiple times a day, definitely frequenting the restroom for the mirror much more often than the commode.  I had two favorite scenes to perform; the first involved crying, a "gun" pointed at my reflection, and medium-whispered curse words aimed at my "captor".  The cursing was a must, of course because what other chance would I have to say the word "shit" semi out loud without consequence?  The second, as promised, was the acceptance speech, which also included excessive sobbing.  If I was really feeling it I would pin my hair up in a not-so-perfect french twist (because that was the most glamorous do of 1992), smear on some of my mom's blue eyeshadow and really get down on some serious waterworks.  I still struggle with the concept of time, so who knows how long the 7 year old version of me was ever really in there...long enough to thank my parents, my husband, who would have been Taylor High at the time.  He was my blonde-haired, brown eyed, totally serious elementery school crush.  Probably a repeat character on Swamp People now.  He made fun of me once.  I still had a thing for him after that, but was no longer a die hard band-aid.  Scarring though.  These are the memories that make grown ups go crazy and become drug addicts holding cardboard signs at intersections that say "Hungry" and "God blesses the generous".

Not to ruin the surprise, but I am not an Oscar winner, nor am I a drug addict or homeless, and only a little kick ass.  My Restroom Oscar ceremonies have been shaved down to the occasional Blue Steel look in the mirror, just to be sure I've still got it.  I am fully grown now, fully aware that the dream of winning an Oscar is long behind me.  Now my sense of hope, wonder, and possibility comes from my painfully darling kids.  Seeing my son realize that it's fun to have someone think he's funny, seeing him get scared of Scooby Doo characters, feel brave when he sleeps all night in his own bed, make up stories, ask me to make up stories under a tent of blankets, this is what gives me hope that good can win in this world of crazy, evil, maniacs.  I see the world becoming a better place because he's in it.  I traded my Oscar for he and his brother.  However, I must admit, whenever February rolls around and the Academy Award winners begin to spout off their "thank you's" and "dream come true's" I still get a little itch to slip quietly away into the bathroom for just a minute...oh, hell, Lord knows how long I'd be in there.