I fess up: I have hang ups (insert collective groan from friends and family here). Probably far more than I care to admit or have time to consider. And as I’m sitting here drinking a satisfying glass of Crystal Light Raspberry Lemonade, I’m reminded of one such hang up.

It’s a big deal for me to acknowledge I drink Crystal Light, and I have my girl Lori to blame for having it in my house in the first place. She sent me home with a four pack, all different flavors, after yesterday’s “Tuesdays with M-Lori.” I was giddy to have my little bundle of powder packs, and the second I got home, I happily made a batch. I fell in love with Crystal Light at Lori’s house. She always has some made and if not, she can whip up a batch in a heartbeat, even if it’s just for me. And while I enjoy my Crystal Light immensely, I won’t buy it for myself. Why? Because Crystal Light is something suburban at-home moms buy, and I’m not a suburban at-home mom. 

Hang up #145: I will do whatever it takes to make sure people don’t think I’m a mom. Any kind of mom. Or even a potential mom.

Yes, I know that’s crazy. Who cares what complete strangers think of me, right? I mean, if the checkout dude at the grocery store thinks I’m a mom, what’s the big deal? Is he or she going to say something over the store loudspeaker after I walk out the door? “Attention shoppers. I just wanted to let you know that a mom has left the building.” No, I don’t think so (they don’t, do they?). But still, I don’t want that person thinking I’m anything except “not a mom” when I walk away.

It doesn’t even have to be strangers. When I quit my job a couple of years ago, it never occurred to me people would think it would be to have babies. Even after I sent out my own email announcing I was quitting to pursue creative writing, I still got people asking me if I was pregnant or planning on getting pregnant. I was shocked and stunned. But probably not as much as they were when I thunderously declared, “Hell no!” Even two years later, I think there are still people at that office waiting for me to announce my pregnancy. And that bugs me.

When I’m with Lori and Matteo, I want to wear a big sign that says, “I am child free” or “He’s not mine,” or “I live in the city, drive a two-door convertible, and love my cat almost as much as my husband.” Pushing the stroller yesterday while Lori carried Matteo (in what I call his little marsupial pouch), I suddenly realized we looked like two stay-at-home moms out for a walk along the beach. We even passed by a few paired-up, baby toting women and each time we did, I freaked out. “Oh god, we look like them, don’t we?” I said to Lori, who just laughed at me and made fun of my issues (like she always does). The slowness of “Tuesdays with M-Lori” I talked about in yesterday’s blog entry doesn’t bother me as much as the thought that people think we’re both at-home moms.

I want to make something clear. I don’t have anything against moms or working moms or suburban moms or at-home moms or women who what to be moms. Go for it. Have it at. Go forth and populate. I just don’t want any of those labels stuck to me, even accidentally or unintentionally or unconsciously, because it’s not me. It’s not who I am. It’s not what I want to be. It has never been what I want to be. So don’t think I’m that just because I have a set of boobs and a uterus, I am. I am not. What I am, first and foremost and always, is Barb. Crazy Barb, sure. Weird Barb, fine. Barb the Lush, fair. Barb the Daughter/Sister/Wife/Auntie/Neighbor/Friend, of course. Barb-who-drinks-Crystal-Light-but-is-child-free, spot on.

Incidentally, I drank the last of my Crystal Light Raspberry Lemonade as I wrote this. So Lori, if you’re reading this, could you stop by the store and pick me up some more? Fruit Punch is still my favorite. Thanks.