Soundtrack

 “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".