Last week, my co-worker "M" made it official. As of 5pm on Tuesday, July 21st I was cool. It's sad that it took an act of God (ok, ok, an act from my supervisor) for me to become cool. Because I was. Once. When I was young.

I have an intern named "T". He is 20 years old. He goes to the same university where I earned my Masters. If I were a college-aged girl, I'd probably think he was cute. Fine. I'm 27 and I still think he's cute. He's over 18, it's allowed. Anyway, I'm only seven years older than him. But I'm married. With a job. A mortgage. And a baby. To him, I am old. And very uncool.

If you knew me in college (which I'm praying most of you didn't), then you know I liked to party. I liked to get all dressed up, go out with my girlfriends, have more than a few drinks, dance a little too closely to the frat boys, and stumble home long after a lot of my dormmates were already asleep in bed. I wasn't a bad girl; I was simply testing the boundaries my parents didn't let me get anywhere close to in high school. I was in a sorority. I went to keg parties. When I was in grad school, my soon-to-be DH was a starter on that university's football team, and I hung out with the offensive line. I got into bars without paying cover. I got free drinks at clubs and free meals at restaurants. For a while there, I was almost "that girl". And then I said "I do."

OK, so my wedding vows alone didn't make me old. Neither did buying a house, accepting my first, then second jobs in quick succession, or even getting pregnant and giving birth to G. None of those single actions made me the lame, boring, "thinks she's cool but isn't" person I've become, at least in my intern's eyes. The fact is, I'm not really sure what made me old and uncool... and it's driving me crazy.

Now, I find myself thinking that it's only just a matter of time before G also finds me old and uncool. Sure, today I am her super-hero, do-anything, smiling, laughing, safe and secure mama. But what about tomorrow? How much longer until I say something oh-so-embarassing like my mom used to do, which solicits an eye roll from my daughter? How much longer until everything I do is met with a dismissive toss of the head from a pre-teen who knows everything about everything?

I should be the bigger person here, I know that. I should do what my mom used to do when I was a teenager. She would emphatically tell me that she didn't care about being my friend, that it was her job to be my mother. To make sure that I was raised with the proper morals and values, learned how to be polite, do arithmetic, and write a grammatically-correct sentence. Now that I'm older (and apparently very boring), my mom is one of my best friends. She still tells me she doesn't want to be my friend. She still tells me her job as a mother isn't over, that it never will be. To her, it's still way more important to be my guide, my mentor than it is to be my friend. She's incredible.

I'm not sure I have that inner-strength, that self-confidence to truly not care what my child thinks of me. Now, that doesn't mean I'm going to go to her sixth grade parent teacher conference wearing a mini-skirt and a halter top (mental to-do list: give outdated mini-skirt and halter top to Goodwill). That would be embarassing, for both of us. But do I want her to confide in me when something is wrong, trust me enough to share her secrets, and occasionally let me be a witness to some of the big events in her life? Absolutely. And I want her to be as proud of me as I am of her.

So I guess being old, boring, and uncool is ok in the long run. Besides, do you know anyone else who is up at 2am almost every morning? Just college party animals... and me.

...This is my first confession.

I am a working mom. And I hate it.

The alarm goes off at 7:30 each morning. Sometimes, it my actual alarm clock. Other times, it's Ducky scratching at the door to go downstairs. Usually, it's "G" in her room, ready for the day. Every once in a while, it's the crazy Asian guy next door mowing his lawn... and usually half of mine.

The morning starts with a flurry of activity. Nurse the baby, change the baby, pick out clothes for the baby, feed the baby, play with the baby, get the baby's lunch ready for the sitter. Walk Ducky, feed Ducky. Empty the dishwasher, reload the dishwasher, try to make the house look presentable so our God-send of a sitter doesn't feel obliged to clean it. Feed myself, get my lunch ready, brush my teeth, change into work clothes, put on make up. Sometimes I remember to brush my hair. Sometimes I don't. I'm a working mom. It's my excuse, my crutch.

9am, the sitter arrives. I go over the basics of the day-- fruit for lunch, yogurt for late afternoon snack. DH will be home around (insert time here). Hand over my sweet G to a woman who nine months ago was a complete stranger to us. Walk out the door, leaving the best part of my world behind.

Did I mention I hate being a working mom?

By the time I get to work, I've usually had at least one "therapy" session. It either entails a chat on the phone with my mom (hands free people, thank you BlueTooth!) or a trip to the chiropractor (you see, I did this crazy thing to my neck while nursing G in December that just never went away... and got even worse when I fell down a flight of stairs at work). You'd need therapy, too, if you had my job.

Deadline #1: endure the endless morning meeting, where we cover the same topic at least five times. Check.

(Brief pause-- here is where I am contractually obligated to say that the views expressed in this blog are not the views of my employer... which will remain nameless, other than "the station"... but still, a contract is a contract.)

Deadline #2: stack a local TV newscast that goes largely unwatched by the majority of the viewing public, thanks to online sites and Jon Stewart. Check.

Deadline #3: write every story the anchors will read during an hour broadcast-- stories that I will get no credit for, because most of the folks at home think the anchors write all their material (insert sartorial laughter here). Check.

Deadline #4: 5pm, the magic hour. Laugh along with my great coworkers when things go well. Scream like bloody murder when they don't. Give all the credit or blame to myself, either way. Did I mention I'm egotistical too? Check.

Deadline #5: navigate my way back home, through the streets of a mid-sized Southern town. Holler at drivers who believe the right hand lane is where they should do all their driving, who don't think they should ever move over and allow people to merge. I'm seriously surprised I haven't been killed yet, or at least been in an accident. Check.

6:15pm (or thereabouts)-- finally home. If DH is working, I'll get about 15 minutes to "debrief" him on my day before he leaves for work. We *maybe* see each other two nights a week. So is the life of an mid-level law enforcement officer. "Love yous" are replaced by "be safes", an homage to the risky career my husband has chosen for himself, for us. It's not ideal. It's far from the life we were supposed to have-- back before a devastating knee/foot injury sidelined him during his senior year of D1 college football, took away his starting position at left tackle, and our dreams of a career in the NFL. But would we be here, with our amazing daughter, if that had actually happened? Probably not. So it's a blessing in disguise.

I get about 60 minutes each night to play with G before she starts getting cranky, and is obviously ready for bed. She is soooo good at telling me when she's had enough. First, it's the legs that were so sure of themselves earlier in the evening, turning wobbly. Then, it's the eye rubs. And finally, the first whines of exhaustion. If she's not in the bathtub by then, it's sure to be a rough night. I slather her with baby lotion (I've put Cetaphil cream on her face since she was three weeks old, she may have the softest baby skin on the planet), rub her bottom with Desitin (wow, my first blog, and already product placement for two companies! I should be getting paid for this), put on her pjs, and begin nursing her to sleep. It's my favorite part of the day.

About 15 minutes later, and she is typically out like a light. This kid loves to sleep, often at 11 or 12 hour stretches a night (since about six months old, I'm not that lucky!). Once she's asleep, I head downstairs and try to knock out a couple chores before my own bedtime-- clean a bathroom or two, wipe down the kitchen, dust, put the baby and dog toys away. A mom's work is never done.

But then again, whether you're at the office, at home, or even at the park, being a mom is a full-time job (even if it's not your only one). Just like any job, there are a lot of downsides; stress, frustration, anger, sometimes fear-- am I doing enough? is she going to be ok? what does the future hold? But the upsides, oooooh, the upsides; those sweet kisses before bedtime, the way she reaches for me when I get home from work, the smiles whenver I catch her eye, her infectious laughter at silly sounds and tickles. It's the best job I've ever had.

Did I mention I love being a working mom?