A dear friend of mine recently informed me that I am a suburban mommy. Ugh. I’m usually good for some long-term denial but this one I’m having a hard time denying. The facts of the case are such: I do live in suburbia AND I am a mommy. So I have to concede that I am, in fact, a suburban mommy. Next thing you know, I’ll show up at school to drop my kid off wearing yoga pants and Uggs while arranging dental appointments on my cell phone. Damn it. That happened just this morning.
Sometimes these identities I carry surprise me. Like this one: I’m a writer. For the next six months, once I’ve exchanged those Uggs for a pair of slippers, I become a writer. I’ve written before, quite a lot. But I’ve always done that writing as a student. Now, there’s absolutely no one making me write. Now I’m choosing to write. There’s no grade at the end, no degree somewhere afar off. Just me, wanting to write. My tight deductive reason leads me to believe that this makes me a writer (provided I actually do get some writing done…!) A second identity that jumped up to surprise me.
And of course, there are a whole host of other identities I carry. Some I nurture, some I shy away from. And some, I’m realizing, I have to walk away from.
But I swear, if anyone else calls me a suburban mommy….!