“You can’t make me”
“Whatever Mom”
“You are so mean”
“It’s not fair!”
“Honey, where is the soap?”
“The car is a mess”
“I have no more clean socks”
“I think you are overreacting”
Always running behind, feeling guilty…until
I shimmy into my yoga pants, pull them up…but not too
high. Bend over to check my panty
line. Yank down my sports bra, shove the
girls together, throw on a tank top and get into the car. NPR is blaring, water bottle precariously
teetering in the cup holder. I whip the
swagger wagon into a compact parking space with ease, throwing the car into
park. I rummage around the floorboard
until I locate a discarded ponytail holder with a moist cheerio clinging to it. Grabbing my water, I slam the car door closed
and attempt to lock the door. No
keys. Pawing through my purse, avoiding
a sticky lollypop stick and a crusty tissue I search for my keys only to
realize I have tossed them into the passenger seat. Why am I so brilliant? I close the car door again, attempting to shove
my hair into a messy bun. The clock is ticking…
Stumbling up the stairs, slightly out of breath I walk into
my happy place. The humid air is tinged
with the ripe smell of sweat. I stand in
my spot, facing the mirror and am berated by my thoughts. “I should really wear make up. I hate my thighs. Do I have teacher arm jiggle? What am I making for dinner? What do need at HEB? If I look down I have a triple chin.”
Then I hear it… “It’s Britney Bitch”. My hips sway back and forth waiting for my
instructor to begin. With each pelvis thrust,
chest pump, cabbage patch, and Roger Rabbit my mind lets go. I am transformed into a fly girl, oozing with
sex appeal, and confidence. I start to
twerk, bouncing my booty. I am free from the pressure of attempting to be
supermom. The only pressure that I feel
is my spandex fighting to contain my sweet jiggle. This
is where I feel whole, shaking it on the dance floor. This is my therapy.
The soundtrack of my life is not just “I’m a little teapot”,
or the high pitched whine demanding snacks, it is Pit Bull and the pulsating
beat of Drop it Low. I can make a mean
Skinnytaste recipe, “Elsa” braid my daughter’s hair, and shake that thang. There is more to me than what you see. This mama can “Roar".
