Personal pan pizzas, flash mobs, and laugh lines

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I remember being pregnant with Jannika and longing for the moment where someone would be brave enough to ask, "When are you due?" without that She's HUGE! Is she pregnant? Or did she just eat the entire breakfast buffet at Big Boy? hesitation. The ultimate confirmation of impending motherhood...so exciting!! 

Aaaaaaaaand then you have your baby and people still ask you when you're due, and you're unsure whether to point to your newborn beside you in the stroller or just punch them in their own protruding gut with no explanation at all.

And then as your baby grows, it's a total thrill when someone can't believe you're a mom. Which is dumb, because you are, but there's still an unexplainable thrill...to not be associated with the small human for whom you would take a bullet. See? Dumb.

Take the time Jannika earned a free personal pizza from Pizza Hut through a reading program at the library (yes, I'm doing quite well in my train-your-child-to-be-a-dork-like-you system). I left Rob in the car with the kids and brought in Jannika's colorful "Book It!" coupon to redeem...and the guy behind the counter didn't believe I looked old enough to have a child. And not like in a You're a hot mom, and I'll flirt with you to brag to my buddies later kind of way. More like a I'm about to call my manager because you stole this off some poor nerdy kid who actually wasted time reading, you mean, mean person kind of way. And I couldn't even act indignant because I was so flattered.

And then you hit this point in momhood where you're just so...middle age. Like when people start automatically thinking your live-in 18-year-old sister is your daughter.

Or like what happened at flash mob practice Sunday.

Two girlfriends and I signed up to be in a flash mob (cross one off my bucket list). We get through an hour or so of choreography, and then it comes time for the choreographer to figure out "stage" positioning. Dance teachers assume front line positions, then the school's dance troupe, then their regular students, and then he turns to the rest of us (regular Joe Schmoes ages 7 through 77), and starts quickly pulling out all the teens. So he's all, "You...you...you and you...you..." while pulling out the "young" ones. We're at the end of the row he's slowly working down, and when he gets to Shelley, Denisse, and me, he promptly closes he mouth and goes, "Okay, that's all of you." To which we turned to each other and laughed at this could-be-taken-as-a-total-dis brush-off. Yuk, yuk, yuk. Yeah, we know we can't pass for teens.

And before we're done laughing, he goes, "Okay, now I want moms out there." And points to us.

Not 20-somethings.

Not young women.

Not total hotties. (okay, okay, I realize this would have been a total stretch)

Nope. Moms. Spot on.

We weren't carrying babies. We weren't talking about poopy diapers or preschool snacks. We didn't even have our kids there. Yet he knew. Total ego blow. Dumb, I know. I started making sure I didn't have rogue Cheerios stuck to my shirt or something.

Maybe it was the mom yoga pants that were the dead giveaway? The pony-tailed, non-feather-extentioned hair? The absence of a flat-brimmed hat?

We started laughing again over the absurdity of it all, and I came to the conclusion that it had to be our laugh lines, the grooves that are the direct evidence of the delight we take in our kiddos. The proof that we are content in our lives of spit up, dandelion bouquets, and squishy kid kisses. The testament to the joy found in just being a mom. Yep, that had to be it. And I, surprisingly, was down with that, laugh lines and all.

But then again, maybe it was just the yoga pants...