When does it stop feeling like pretend?

I just got off the phone with Skip, the manager of the local garage and body shop in town, where I dropped the van off to be detailed this morning. Having improved upon the Extra Butter version of the van I had been driving since August, by adding an ocean of dog vomit to the mix when Reilly had a stomach bug last week, I decided it was time to call in the professionals. There are only so many rolls of paper towels and bottles of Febreeze I can go through before I have to wave the white flag, as much to surrender as to wave the stink away from my face. I think Skip was being a tad dramatic, though, when he called to ask if they could keep the van overnight to continue working on it since it was the "worst case they had ever seen". It's not like I left my car in long-term parking at JFK for three months with a package of raw chicken in the trunk, or had two stolen six packs of Bartles and James wine coolers explode in the back seat after being left in the heat and toppling over. Roll up your sleeves, Skip, and get to work.

I trust Skip, though, since he's done a bunch of work on both cars, including jumping both repeatedly, and after I hung up with him I thought how weird that I'm in that stage in life where I have a mechanic whom I know by name. I also have a plumber, an electrician and a contractor. When the hell did that happen? Once upon a time, when faced with a household emergency, H and I called the "real grown-ups", aka, one of our parents, to give us guidance and provide a trusted source of help. Now I'm the one giving out numbers to new neighbors in town. When did H and I become one of them? Sure, I might look like I should have a mortgage, a 401K and a will, but there are many times when it still feels like pretend and someone is going to come along and say, "I'm sorry. This life was reserved for an actual adult. You can leave now."

It seems with every milestone in my adult life I have felt, at times, like I am playing a role in a movie. As a new teacher, the very first day of school, I was quaking in my stacked loafers and almost peed my brand new, bought-with-anticipated-paychecks Banana Republic trousers. TROUSERS, I tell you! No more khakis and corduroys for me. I had a name plate on my desk and kids were calling me Mrs. H and shit. I had my own chalkboard and overhead projector*! I thought, look at me, all teacher-y, calling roll and correcting homework! Now as long as I could hide from the people from the Board of Ed who were sure to come take my license away and ensure I ruined no young lives.

The coup de gras of this "role" phenomenon though, has been parenthood. Minutes after #1 came screaming out of me I was apparently supposed to be perfectly comfortable with her latching herself to me like a remora. This was my first lesson in faking it. Look at me, perfectly comfortable with someone eating from my body! No discomfort here! Got this lactating thing complete under control! That night in the hospital was comedy, as our eldest woke every hour and H and I stared at each other, wondering if we should ring the call bell, admitting our ignorance as to the needs of our hours-old progeny, or pretend we had even a shred of a clue as to what our kid might want. We chose the latter and slept not a wink**. It didn't get much better the rest of our stay. I remember being wheeled out the doors of the hospital upon discharge, precariously balancing the infant carrier I barely new how to buckle, which contained a child I barely knew how to keep alive, sure at some point somebody would yell, "STOP THAT WOMAN! SHE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT SHE'S DOING!!!" But no, I probably looked like any new mother, off to start life with her new baby, which is what I was desperately trying to feel like.

So basically, that's been the gist of the last nine years. I look like "Mother of Three" right out of Central Casting. Hastily scraped back hair, check, peanut butter-proof outfit, check, minivan, check. I see myself doing things like going to PTA meetings and running Girl Scout trips and I think to myself, this such a cliche. It's not that I don't love my life, in fact, it's quite the opposite. Walking the girls to school*** on a sunny fall morning, when my life looks and feels like a scene out of Pleasantville, as I wave to other moms and our clean, happy children run off to school while the sun shines brightly on the fall foliage. It's an incredibly enjoyable cliche that I adore (mot days), but I still can't get over the fact that it still feels like smoke and mirrors a lot of times and that the other mothers must really know what they're doing. Maybe their vans aren't the "worst case" Skip has ever seen.

Maybe that's the case with any job or stage in life. Maybe new grandparents feel it, new hairdressers, new baristas at Starbucks, even the President feels it. He must sign a bill once in a while and say, look at me being all Presidential, while worrying he looks awkward with the way he holds a pen and all****.



*They had only recently gotten rid of the slates and the dunce cap.
**Note to new parents: ALWAYS let them take the baby to the nursery the first night. You are so tired after labor, should you get behind the wheel of a car, you'd probably be pulled over for drunk driving. Handling an infant is probably not a good idea until you get four consecutive hours of shut eye.
***Back when I had to do that - woot!
***Props to my fellow southpaw.