NMM story time edition

You know how people will say, "Oh, you'll be thankful you look young when you are older..." Yah. Today is not that thankful day, and I guess I must not be "older" yet.

When I was 23, I had long blond hair reaching to the middle of my back. I also had a large protruding belly which in it held one Queen S. You should have SEEN the looks I received...on many occasions.

From the "tisk tisks" uttered by the 80 year old lady at Tim Hortons (for my non-Canadian friends...repeat after me...Tim Hortons is better than Starbucks...now look at this dangling medallion and again repeat after me...I will send Momma Bex Tim Horton gift cards once a week for the next year....goood.....and...GO!), to the patronizing clerk at the movie store saying I could not in fact get a membership card unless I had a parent/guardian sign for me...you know...being under 18 and all...with a hugely pregnant belly...SERIOUSLY people.

In a season where one is suppose to GLOW and be proud of creating new life, I rather began to feel shame since obviously everyone in the free world thought that I was a sorry misfit of a teenager who had no self control, was irresponsible and bluntly just couldn't keep her boyfriend's snake in his pants. (No one seemed to notice the 500 carats of diamonds hanging on the 4th finger of my left hand...details)

So, on one blustery day, I walked into an uppity salon while on vacation. Daddy G was not with me as he was talking business with some film crew dudes, and so in turn had NO idea what his new, hormone filled wife was about to do.

When I said to the "salon artist" (hairdresser is a curse word in there), "Just hack it off", the silence that filled that place could give a Sunday morning Baptist church congregation a run for it's money. All eyes in the joint were on me, as I was politely, yet firmly informed that, "We don't hack, here." Right. Oooookay, can you please craft my locks into a lusciously short do that makes me look somewhat like Sharon Stone at 40. (And if I actually DO look 40 at the end, I'll throw in an extra tip.) That worked. Well, after being asked a thousand times if I had really thought this through, you know, since I am obviously in a horrible time in my life, filled with depression over being 18 and knocked up.

The result...let's just say, I was STILL asked, that VERY day in fact to have my parent/guardian sign for release of information to apply for a cell phone. I cried on the spot. That sales clerk, who I can guarantee was younger than me, probably wished he stayed in bed that morning after I got through with my snot-faced, hormonally charged, tearful explanation of being old enough and married enough to not only be pregnant, but to also have my own cell phone.

Oh, and I think Daddy G might have cried on the spot too, when I walked into the office to greet him. Nothing like a good shock to the system. As much as he assures me he 'just didn't recognize me, but surely loved it...after some getting used too'...c'mon ladies, we all know what that REALLY means..."What the blazes did you do?!?!?! You used to be semi good looking, now you look like a man, baby! How am I going to hold your hand in public now that people are going to be photographing the first pregnant man everywhere we go?!"

All this to preface the fact that today, 6 years later, I am sure that no one would assume I am a teenager, or that I am unmarried (500 carats, still hanging there), when they see me with my 3 children driving a minivan....right? RIGHT? That scene just DRIPS responsible mommyhood, does it not? For pete's sake...a MINIVAN people!!! That is a BIG deal!

So, there is NO way, that when I was on Queen S's field trip today (with darling kids in tow), that another mother (not ON the field trip, but at field trip destination) would come up to me and say..."I am sure I know you from somewhere"...Humming and huhing...."Oh, I know..what's your boyfriend's name?" (As I shove a mum mum in baby L's face, wipe the boogers off Princess B's nose, tell Queen S to keep her hands to her own body, and try desperately to restrain my self from punching presumptuous women in the nose...) "Husband?" I reply, "Daddy G is his name." Hmmmm, nope, doesn't know my husband, which is good, or she may get a punch in the other nostril. "Oh, do you know my 17 yr old daughter Brandi?" Are you for REAL lady? I could be your 17 yr old daughter's teacher! Nope, this surely didn't happen today, and I surely didn't make an appointment at the salon for Friday. As I was writing, I thought, I am going to take a picture of me right now, and let you tell me...do I look like a 17 yr old unwed mother?

On second thought...don't answer that.