I watched in the rearview mirror as MP, sitting in her carseat, waived to a homeless man holding a ‘God Bless’ sign (“Mommy! We forgot to give him money!”), blissfully unaware that we were, yes, late again.
Seven minutes later, and we’re running through the gym’s double doors, bursting into a class already in progress.
The Track Mommies turn to look, in unison.
The Track Mommies are everything I am not. The Track Mommies have it together. The Track Mommies are on time. She of the salon tan and designer track suit. Of the mani and the pedi and the blinding diamond ring signifying the perfect marriage to a successful provider. She of the perfectly coiffed hair – pulled tightly into a low pony to give the illusion of ‘sporty’ low maintenance.
The Track Mommies quiet as we quickly shuffle to MP’s cubby. I feel their eyes on our backs – me, freshly showered with wet hair peeking from beneath a ball cap, and MP … oh yes … in a dragon costume. Did I forget to mention this?
After peeling the endless layers atop her unitard, MP gleefully ran to join her group. I walked back to the parents area, and settled into a good vantage point. (Perhaps I’m old fashioned, but I actually ENJOY watching my child crabwalk and sommersault …) The Track Mommies, meanwhile, have turned back to their conversations, their cell phones and their lattes.
I can only wonder what truly goes on in the lives of the Track Mommies. I know all too well, looks can be (and in my experience, usually are) deceiving. As I watch MP from my perch – dancing around and looking like she’ll pee her pants any second – I can’t help but be proud of our little party of two. And I silently pledge to let her wear that goofy dragon suit whenever and wherever she wants.
And to never, ever buy her a track suit.