When I was a kid, I was mortified when my father would show up in his old convertible Mustang, in cut-off Levi’s (with a perm and moustache!), honking, waving, and yelling my name, as if I might not be sure it was him. I would smile and hurry over, wishing I had a father who was quiet, wore khaki pants, and drove a hard-top.
I have prided myself in being perfectly respectable when I go to pick-up my children at school. My sons are always beaming when they see me walking up. Until recently.
“Mom, do you have to wear that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your big black coat. You’re the only one who wears one.”
“You mean because it is so long?”
“Uh…”
“Because it has real fur on it?”
“Um…”
“Is it because it’s too fancy?”
Bingo. I could tell from their body language. I am one of a select few who does not abide by upstate sensibilities. Just when I thought I had it all figured out, too. It’s not like I swear, smoke cigarettes and wear high heels, but I do think I am the only one with a snake-skin messenger bag in the vicinity.
“I’m sorry, boys, but this is my winter coat and it’s perfectly acceptable.”
They look down, knowing better than to challenge Mama Bear.
I zip up my designer dud, slip on my sunglasses and walk toward the only washed car in the parking lot.
“Come on, boys, let’s roll!” I holler in a tone reminiscent of a voice from my not so distant past.
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