Uncool is the New Cool

Despite doing everything to blockade its arrival, my new status  slipped through the radar, surprising and as unwelcome as a bulging zit on your wedding day, seared onto every nuptial picture for life.


I was anointed into the Not Cool Mom Club. Entry was free and I don’t think I’m going to be allowed out for at least the next 15 years.  Membership is co-chaired by non-members Remi and Chad.  Eden should join the committee in six months or so.  Todd's membership was activated last year when he decided to grow his hair down to his shoulders.  No matter that he isn’t a mom.

Ignorance is bliss -- I thought I was still cool 

Me? Not a cool mom. I thought compared to my mom, the odds were stacked in my favor.  Except according to Remi, nothing is cool about your mom showing up to the bus stop with red Jockey grandma undies showing out of her pants, just shy of her ribs. Not cool to have hair like mine – thick, opinionated, frizzy -  in the morning and even less cool to wear it out "like that."  

Laughing too loud is not okay; it's a cacaphony of embarrassment for my kids.  Any attempt at athleticism on my part, even running, sends the kids into fits of mocking laughter.  Mom in a bikini? Permanently scarring, no beach big enough to hide from the monster on the sand.  Ultimate treasonous un-cool act – Mom giving Daddy a kiss or hug in public, gross and gnarly.

The kids have an expansive list chronicling my not-coolness.  Not cool to see your mom dancing at a Bar Mitzvah to Pitbull. Super un-cool to see your mom naked getting out of the shower.  Beyond not cool to hold hands anywhere within 100 yards of school, friend's house, town, bus stop, doctor's office, the Fresh Kills landfill or the bottom of the Atlantic.  Singing to myself or joining in to Nicki Minaj's Super Bass is a federal house offense and makes my kids mime the "gag me with a spoon" act behind my back.  They forget eyes have grown out of the back of my head (that's gotta count for some type of cool.)

Not cool to wear a tank top and reveal my not-so-recently shaved armpit. A written letter from our sleep away camper, "Please don't wear the dress you wore on Rookie Day to visiting day. It was super embarrassing and it looks like a dress for a 12 year old.  Not cool."  So not cool to ever touch your son's bed head hair or attempt to pat it down at the bus stop.  Also not cool to rush in to proffer a hug after he crashes, head first into a tree he was playing tag around.  Parental public emotion or sympathy directed at you -- a deadly un-cool.

Winning is losing.  No talking, touching, singing, dancing, laughing, hair combing, red underwear showing is winning according to the older duo.  Losing is literally that.  Losing all the wacky, funny, sensitive, crazy things that make me me is like taking the splatter out of a Jackson Pollack masterpiece, rendering it a very boring picture and in my case, a very dull mom.

The beginning of the end of cool

Eden is 5 ½, and I still have a minimum of six cool months left with her.  She still likes to be carried.  Hugs are welcomed affection not dangerous afflictions.  My lap is the best seat in the house.  Snuggles are mandatory not-marginalized semi-retired forms of togetherness.  My harmonizing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” with Eden often draws a thrilling comparison to Celine Dion.  And always, as her door shuts for slumber, she tells me, "Goodnight, I love you and you're the best." 

Chad still expects his songs at bedtime.  Remi likes back tickles and a verse or two.  Eden would be thrilled if I abandoned my marriage bed and bunked with her forever or at least for the next six months.  I'll take it.  Whenever and always.  There are moments when collectively, bunched on our green, mushy couch, legs labyrinthed underneath the blanket, I will find a smallish hand reaching out for mine.  A head will eventually weight itself on my shoulder.  All 37 pounds of Eden will be draped around my neck, and for the length of at least one Sponge Bob episode I'm the coolest mom on the planet.