A peek in the back of my car would reveal a booster seat. A look in the front window hints at a small artist with a messy side.
Venture inside, and you’re assaulted by a melange of signs of kiddom. A small coat abandoned on the floor beneath the hook here, one size 13 shoe there. The coat to a doll here, a LEGO there.
It’s true. I am a mother.
I couldn’t escape it if I wanted to.
Because even when we step beyond the boarders of our home and leave all those markers of parenting a small child behind – the bike, the doll coat, that tiny LEGO brick – we parents are stamped with evidence that there is a little girl living in our house.
The fairy Band-Aids tend to be a dead giveaway that my husband is a father.
And the glitter. I spotted some on his cheek last week. And in his ear (don’t ask … I didn’t).
We parents have all borne the evidence of some art project gone awry at some point. It’s our own special badge of dried gluey honor.
We’re marked by our references. Other adults sample from movies. We deal strictly in cartoon quotes. You’ll have to excuse us. We have entire episodes memorized from viewing the same episode over. And over. And over again.
We tend to spell our curse words too, if not offer up some nonsense version that will turn heads … but won’t get our kid sent to the principal’s office for copying it.
Ask us for a good joke, and we’ll offer up a knock knock but can’t promise it’s any good.
Ask where the bathroom is, and we’ll give you directions to “the potty.”
And if you’re ever out of tissues, don’t worry, we always carry an extra pack … or three.
What’s your mom (or dad) tell?
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