I recently read an article in the New York Post (so take it with a grain of salt) about how parents (at least those from Manhattan and Long Island) are letting loose while their kids are away at sleep away camp. And by loose, I mean wild. As in no-clothes-allowed rules at home, sex in the kids’ bedrooms and drug-fueled threesomes, wife swaps and orgies … You know, the usual. Wait, what?! Are people my age really doing this? According to those interviewed, yes. They see it as their second chance to do all the things they didn’t get to do before they had kids. Um, okay. My boys have been away for two weeks (big ups to Mom and Dad, Denise and Peter — thank you, thank you, thank you!) and the wildest things I’ve done are triple workouts, an afternoon massage and dinner out with friends.
I used to be fun. Not coke-and-Molly-laced-sex-party fun, but stay-out-all-night, dance on bars, ride mechanical bulls fun. You know, normal fun. But that was B.K. — before kids. I think when I gave birth, my fun genes came out with the placenta.
If you ask my kids, I am not the “fun mom.” I’m a “rules mom.” My sister’s a fun mom. My friends Paula, Mary Liz and Kathy are fun moms. But I am not a fun mom. I’m too serious, too scheduled and too strict. In a (hyphenated) word, I’m high-strung. Every now and then, I let my freak flag fly and the boys, after the initial shock wears off, love it. Embarrassing dance moves in the kitchen, randomly thrown flying rubber pigs in the family room, spontaneous trips to the creamery — that’s about as crazy as it gets for me.
Truth is, I don’t want to be the fun mom. It’s not who I am and I’m okay with that. At 44, I’m not trying to impress anyone or be someone I’m not. I’m just trying to be the best version of myself, one day at a time. Some days I succeed and some days I fail, but I’m always trying to be the best mother, wife, friend, sister, daughter and woman I can be.
I hope my boys know that I’m trying. Even on those days when my yelling sucks all the fun out of the room, I really am trying.