Sorry, Regina George. I'm the absolute antithesis of your surgically perked, perfect haired, wanting to be young and hip mama.

In fact, as I was pleasantly reminded of my upcoming birthday next week by my well-intentioned husband, it was reinforced that age has plowed me over like a dump-truck filled with mid-section spare tires--of the Mac truck variety, face wrinkles for days, and spots on my skin that appear to be epically morphed freckles.

Nope. Not cool at all.

I'm not a cool mom. I say 'no'...like, a lot.

In fact, me saying 'no' is a lot like my kids whining. I'm convinced if those things were magically removed from our parent-child vocabulary, we would rarely speak.

I'm not a cool mom.

I am so out of the loop on latest music and fashion trends that it used to be my favorite thing to roast my high school students in class for wearing things that I tried to pull off when I was busy being not-cool in high school myself.

Like, "Really, Holly? Let me fix those bib overalls for you. The right shoulder is supposed to be unfastened. But it doesn't matter. I look like a pregnant farmer in these anyway."

I'm a regular mom.

I'm washing dishes and deciding whether or not to open the sippy cup-based science experiment that has been growing in the bottom of my sink or just call an audible and toss it because my gag reflex is worth more than the $6 replacement cup and I could use a theraputic walk through Target anyway.

I'm a regular mom whose schedule is filled with drops off and pick up times, doctor appointments and school work, tagging out kid duty with the hubs before I go completely over the proverbial parenting ledge, and who more often opts for the drive thru line at Chick fil A than remembering to cook something off of my perfectly planned meal prep list which I obviously planned but never prepped.

I'm not a cool mom who plans trips to Disney with matching wrist bands of different colors for each family member and uniform shirts with mouse ears because (prepare to hate me, Karens of the world) I just can't get on that train. The nine billion degree weather, eleventy thousand people, and ten dollar ice creams just aren't a thing of magic for me. Quite the opposite really. And matching outfits and glitter ears make me throw up a little. I know!! I'm the worst!!

I'm a regular mom.

I am woken up before the sun by my toddler bounding into our room announcing her presence by jumping, heels first, into my kidneys. I go straight to the coffee pot. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. And then, by an hour before the kids' bedtime, my coffee mug is ready to hand the baton off to my wine glass who tips her hat and says a nonverbal, "Well done, ma'am. I'll take her from here."

To the cool moms:
Not only do kids think you're cool, but I am in complete awe of how you find the time to put on makeup, create eyelashes out of what seems to be a mystical serum that makes you actually appear awake, and get your hair to do that perfect beach wave thing while I'm over here in a top knot with my dry shampoo residue out for the world to see, hidden only slightly by my, "I gave up three days ago" headband.

How do you do it, you mystical unicorn of parenting!?

I mean, I haven't totally thrown in the towel. I'm not sporting a top-permed pixie with Jorsasche jeans that accentuate my long mom butt.

But I'm definitely NOT a cool mom. #RegularMomsUnite

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