Sometimes I feel like the stereotypical suburban housewife, sorry- stay-at-home mom. This feeling is usually followed up by the realization that I kinda am the stereotypical suburban housewife, sorry- stay-at-home mom. After all, I carry a pink cell phone in my (knock-off)designer purse, scrapbook, and belong to a recipe club. Oh goodness.
Actually, there are a few ways I break the stereotype . . .
1. I don't drive a Honda Odyssey (not that I have anything against a vehicle that instantly adds 10 years to your age just by standing next to it.) I prefer the less practical yet stylish SUV and a matching pair of sunglasses.
2. You'll never catch me wearing cute little sweatpants with sassy sayings on the bum. You know what I'm talking about, right? ('Cause if my backside had a voice, my sweatpants would read "QUIT EATING SO MUCH PIZZA") That's why I've made the personal decision not to give my derriere advertising space.
3. I don't know how to play Bunco.
Anyways, getting back to the point of this post- I enrolled Megan in dance class at the age of 2 and one third. I'm not going to lie to you folks. It was really all about keeping up with those Jones'. (kidding John - it is for the essential social networking skills she will develop.)
Rule of suburban housewifery #589 - If your kid doesn't take soccer/gymnastics/ballet/music lessons someone is bound to report you to children's services. No worries though if you talk on the cell phone/text message continuously during the lesson without ever once even gazing in the direction of your child.**
Well, here's proof I looked in her direction at least a few times:
Guess what, she'll have a recital in May. (Insert shrieks of delight here.) She'll get to wear an (outrageously priced - kidding again here John) costume while we trip over ourselves to capture the whole event on video/film.
I love the suburbs.