My ten year reunion is coming up next year. Most of my friends live nearby and those that don’t, well, that’s what Facebook is for. My friend put it pretty good — we have a year to become important somehow and accomplish something worth talking about. If anyone asks me what life dealt me, I will just nod towards my two quiet children and make a joke that even though I love them, they drained away my dreams of becoming a rock star.
As a teenager I was so on the road to success singing Bohemian Rhapsody in the mirror every night. Or I could lie. But, it would have to be a convincing lie, because three of my best friends will be there too, and those harpies will rat me out.
Maybe I will hide my wiggling toddler under my shirt and when someone asks, “What did you do after high school?” I will look surprised, then release him so he drops to the ground and runs away saying, “Mommy!” and I will just act surprised and say, “I guess I just had a baby!”
Here’s the thing, I will try to answer that question honestly. So if someone actually asks me, “What’s happened to you after high school?” I might be inclined to say, “Diabetes is what happened. But that happened after I got married. Then pregnant. But honestly, it was the most beautiful thing that happened to me.” And when they raise their eyebrows in phoney interest and say, “Aw, really?” I will continue, “No. Walking around with a human being inside your belly is like a hostile takeover. It gets even more crazy when it’s time for them to break out. The sweet orb of peacefulness that resided in my midsection becomes something more terrifying. A baby. And I did this. Twice. Do you want to see my battle scars? That cocoa butter did nothing for me.” Of course by that time if they haven’t ran away in terror I will get my 5-year-old daughter (on que) to throw some of the snack bar’s cocktail sauce on me for visual effect and I’ll scream, “Why?”
I know that is totally ridiculous.
Another thought about this bizarre tradition is I hope no one thinks that just because I have kids I want to talk about their kids. I don’t. I want to find the childless and live vicariously through their out-of-state sunny weather tan skin, high power careers (Applebees?), visionary tattoos I can’t read or in general don’t make any sense to me, and follow their depressing dating stories. That would send me into bliss. However what will probably happen is a fellow mom will come up to me and tell me about how her kids eat organic squash, but hates organic bananas. Buzzkill. You know what is bananas? Telling me this information like I’m going to run home and anxiously write it down in my diary. I deal with a picky toddler myself, so I don’t want to be reminded of reasons why I want to stick my thumbs into my eyesockets.
The biggest thing people tend to think about, I guess, is how to impress others. I will just talk about how my son graffiti’ed his sisters bedroom wall with five glorious crayons or how he hides his Hot Wheels in my make-up drawer, the toilet, and under my bedsheets. Maybe I will share about how my daughter washed her hands with a urinal deodorant bar inside the park’s Porta-Potty thinking it was a bar of soap. This is high class living. Living in the fast lane.
Here are some things you might hear me say at my 10 year reunion: “You’re in a band? I was in a band. Well, I lived in Seattle, so that sort of counts” and “Oh you guys aren’t dating anymore? Good. You would have had ugly babies” or for fun maybe get bright-eyed and whisper, “Do you believe in ghosts?”
My husband thinks it’s too early to write about this. I think he needs to make me a sandwich and worry about his own master profession. If my anxious schoolmates are excited to see each other, that is adorable. That is the best part of small town living. We’ve all grown up together one way or another. Whether it’s by hearing about you through your uncle I ran into at the post office or perhaps you live just a block away and we’ve grown as friends with our little families. The 10 year reunion will be good times. And yes. I might just have to have a glass of wine before I go.