Awkward Mom vs The School Drop-off Lane

By all rights, the school drop-off lane should not be a master villain in the Awkward Rouges' Gallery. The school drop-off lane is seemingly benign, an ally even; all warm and inviting and convenient. I'm here to make your life sugar and rainbows, school drop-off lane purrs while nestled next to the school, all autumnal and littered with acorns and red leaves. Like a Siren, she calls to you; stay in your car, Friend, I'll help you. Leave those shoes at home. Don't bother with that bra. You are a queen in your seat, I'll take care of everything. She's like a vision to your tired and grateful eyes, and it all seems like a beatific time-saver for the hassled parent on the go; pull up, unload, pull away. Perfection in motion. Snail slow motion because you are in a school parking lot, but motion none the less. However, don't let school drop-off lane bewitch you. Believe me, she'll betray you. For you must never underestimate the evil potential of the seemingly sweet; that's what happened to the Ghostbusters, you know.  And before you know it, you are running for your life from a 18 story confection in a jaunty sailor hat. Or having to make small talk out your van window while operating automatic windows and doors, which is far worse.

Now, I don't normally use the drop-off lane. This is a hold-over from last school year when the Awkward Mobile was a 2005 Toyota Sienna that had been in over 10 accidents, 1 fairly serious one and 9 ones that were basically me forgetting where the walls of the garage were. That gentle beige giant had more dents and scraps than an amateur wrestler and the electrics in her once automatic passenger side sliding door were shot during the winter of 2013. To open said door, you had to pull slightly up and to the left and that is just too much information to shout out the window, that didn't roll down all the way, to a drop-off volunteer at 8:06 in the morning. Therefore, I got in the habit of parking in the first non-handicap parking place, unloading the children, and walking the maybe 10 feet to the 2 sixth-grade girls who guard the crosswalk like it's no man's land somewhere in World War I France. Then, I would rush back to Super Toddler, who had been shouting his displeasure at not joining us, coo at him for a minute, pop in the van, merge into the exiting side of the drop-off lane, and go to Target. It was a good system.

Our 2005 Toyota Sienna has gone to the great junkyard in the sky (RIP), and our new Awkward Mobile is a baby blue 2014 Honda Odyssey that's fancy as hell. If Odysseus had sailed this sucker, his journey would have taken like 4 pages tops.

2 if he let Super 1st-Grader drive. 

Basically, it's a lovely mini-van and I still have no idea what half the control panel does. I mean, there are about 98 buttons alone and I swear one looks like it fires missiles out the trunk, so not wanting to accidentally annihilate the gym and half the cafeteria, I've been parking like last year and walking the children over to the crosswalk. Of course, if I leave the lights on or the door open, the van screams at me in decibels heard from space, but some of these kids look sleepy so maybe that's not a bad thing. It's all been roses for the week that school has been in session.

Well, not yesterday, Readers. Yesterday, the construction that is happening on the church roof got to a stage that affects half of the parking lot, including the spot I usually park in and the no man's land of the crosswalk. I can park toward the back of the parking lot but that's like the other side of Europe and anyway Spain was neutral during WWI. (Does this make the construction workers the Huns?)  Anywho, I don't mind leaving the little Supers in the van solo if I am going 10 feet, but a whole parking lot? In a van that may or may not shoot missiles? With roving bands of potentially Axis construction workers everywhere? (No, wait, that's World War II, better stop this analogy before it gets out of control.) So, parking is out for the duration of the week, and you know what that means. Whether I like it or not, I am going to have to use the school drop-off lane. Yikes.

So, yesterday, I channel my inner Mr. Mom and head over to the school. Some background. Wait, what? No, not about Mr. Mom. How have you not seen Mr. Mom?! You go do that, I'll wait. (Annoying hold music.) Back? OK, so, here's some background on the van seating arrangements. Since the little Supers are still, well, little, and need help with their car seats, I have them in the middle. Super Baby is directly behind the driver and Super Toddler is behind shotgun. The original plan was to have all the big Supers in the way back, so they could plot against me in peace, but since all three big Supers aren't actually that big and still require boosters, this makes putting on seat-belts a jostling nightmare. Therefore, 2 of them sit back there and 1 of them sits in between Super Toddler and Super Baby, where there is more room because apparently Honda Odysseys are designed by magicians. Unlike normal children, who avoid the middle seat of the middle of the car, the Super fight over it. I have no idea why because that's weird, but they do. Therefore, they are on a rotation and it's Super Kindergartener's turn. This comes up later.

OK, so, the trip from the house to the school is remarkably uneventful. We groove to the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack, Super Oldest sees a hawk as we near the river, Super Baby snores a little, all is well. All is well until we pull into the parking lot, avoid some orange cones set up to mark off the construction area, and join the drop-off lane. Super 1st-Grader, who doesn't like change and who apparently wasn't listening when I explained the new plan over breakfast, promptly loses his mind and starts yelling that he wants to park and, barring that, he wants to go home. All the windows are open and heads are starting to whip our way. I turn the music down and attempt to use my calm Mary Poppins voice, mostly because the windows are open and Nasty-Yelly-Mom is not a moniker that I want this early in school year. By April I won't care, but it's not even September. Naturally, he totally ignores me and continues shouting. By now we are next in line with the second volunteer (there are 2 areas to unload children), and the cheerful and way-out-of-her-depth volunteer is smiling at me through the open passenger window. In my panic to calm Super 1st-Grader, I totally forget how the automatic sliding doors work and open the driver's side one. This wakes up Super Baby, who decides to join her brother's cacophony of shouting. The confused volunteer starts to walk around the van, so I panic again, shut the driver's side door, and open the trunk. I then beep the horn for no reason whatsoever, shout to her that I'm sorry, I don't know all the buttons but verbally drop the -ons somehow and it sounds like I'm talking about butts, shut the trunk, and open the correct sliding door. I try to smile but I'm all tense so I think it looks more like that face a vampire makes before biting you because she recoils a little.

Super Kindergartener is in the middle and she's super tiny, so she gets past Super Toddler with minimal fuss, grabs her backpack out of the front seat window, flashes a blinding smile to the volunteer, and dashes off. This sets up a misleading precedent. Super Oldest climbs over the seats into the middle, but only half of him makes it; his right foot gets caught near the headrest and gets stuck. He flops around like a fish, knocking into and annoying the baby further, and then proceeds to kick off his shoe, which flies into Super Toddler's face, before ricocheting off the volunteer's coffee cup, and landing on the curb. She picks it up and, dazed, hands it to him as he emerges from the van, reaches into the front seat, grabs my purse, and attempts to leave for his friends. I holler at him to come back here, he ignores me, or probably just can't hear me over the sibling noise, and I lean further toward the passenger window, bracing myself on the steering wheel and accidentally pressing the radio volume down all the way. Cherry Bomb comes blasting out of the van just in time for the entirety of Lourdes Catholic School to hear Down the streets I'm the girl next door. I'm the fox you've been waiting for. Hello, Daddy. The sheer inappropriateness of it appears to push the volunteer away from the van and she collides with the volunteer from the spot ahead of us, who has decided that I'm taking way too long and is going to help the people behind me. They untangle just in time for our volunteer to run into Super Oldest, as he returns to the van with my purse. He recovers faster than she does, hurling the purse at Super Toddler for some reason, grabbing his backpack, and rushing off, before she has time to take a bracing sip of her coffee and return to the side of the van to get Super 1st-Grader. I hope to God she has some whiskey in there.

Super 1st-Grader has not moved from the backseat and he shows no intention of doing so.I shoot him my best I-am-going-to-kill-you glare, and he just shuts his eyes. I coo that I'll see him later because I have lunch duty, but he covers his ears. I tell him that I will take him to Hobby Lobby after school to buy Halloween decorations, so he leaps over the middle seat like some Olympian high jumper. He stands up and tries to push past his brother's legs, but ends up sitting on him instead. This makes them both start screaming, Super Toddler shoves him, and he basically falls onto the volunteer. This makes him lose his nerve and he clings to the sliding door of the van, which I have already started to close, and I have horrific visions of crushing my son into the passenger side of the van and driving off with him hanging there, like some grisly windsock. Naturally, I panic again and start mashing buttons down. This stops the sliding door, opens the other one, the trunk, the sun roof, starts the back windshield wipers, and probably shoots missiles into the construction site. I don't know because I'm too freaked out to check. The volunteer repeats It's OK, Sweetie three times in a row like she's in a trance trying to summon Beetlejuice, and hauls him onto the sidewalk. I throw his backpack out the window at both of them, shift into gear, and nearly crash into the truck that was behind me but has decided not to grow old waiting for my circus and is now driving around me. I wait for him to finish and try not to make eye contact with our volunteer, the other volunteer, the people behind me, or any other eyes. This is not easy in the slightest because by this point my van of horrors has everyone staring like the Stay Puff Marshmallow man is tearing up Manhattan. Because that's what happens when allies go bad; the whole world watches while you go down in flames. Sticky, hard to wash out flames.

And then you have no choice. You have no choice at all. You simply have hold your head high and exit the parking lot like you weren't just betrayed by the school drop-off lane. And you do. You hold that head high. At least until you are out of sight and you can go have a good cry and purchase the entirety of Target. Because Target will never betray you.

There is no Super Kindergartener. 

Only Zuul. 

Awkward Mom vs. Color Capturing

Something about the first day of school throws everything into sharp relief; the colors are blinding and you're desperate to capture them. You try. Oh, how you try. But you can't. You can only gaze into the backseat and dream.

You are in the middle of the middle; singing along with Moana, when you aren’t fielding needs from a van full of siblings. Your position was chosen with care; you can monitor your seamless seat-dancing in the rearview mirror, but perhaps more importantly, you can periodically pause your emoting to break up a fight, correct someone’s math, or reposition the baby’s pacifier. I can’t reach the backseat and you become a parent-extension; the lot of the oldest, and you are a lot of the oldest. Patiently calm with the peripheral vision of James Bond, you steer the ship with a world view that is equal parts hopeful and wary.

You will be a leader; there has never been a conclusion more foregone. You will be a no man left behind, down with the ship, not on my watch, slow and steady wins the race, it's all gonna be OK leader, and the world will come to rely on your warm gentle guidance.

Super Oldest

You are in the back left, as far as we let you; you’d much rather ride on the roof. As it is, you are leaning as far toward the window as you can, mostly to avoid your sister’s relentless monologue, but also to hear the secrets the wind tells only you. You seem to exist in a technicolor bubble, untouched by anything except magic, and that magic draws so many to you, at least as many as your tornado hair does; inexplicably pulled to run their fingers through all that uncombed freedom. You let them, for you are mostly good-natured resistance. Ambition and wealth are mere trinkets; you are an adventurer for the pure love of speed and noise.

You will be a visionary; the secrets to the universe are written in your eyes. You will be ahead of your time, misunderstood, quixotic, slightly wild and wonky, knee deep in trouble of your own making, a grin away from getting out of it, and you'll always be right in the end.

Super 1st Grader

You are in the back right, but you might as well be in the driver’s seat; so strong is your voice and so firm is your direction. Your soul is a force of nature so large that it basically exists outside your body, in a whirl of blonde tendrils, loud opinions, and lightening laughter. You can not be tamed. Many will try; your adorable face dares them on, but all they will do is try to meet your eyes and fail. You simply will not be contained, for one does not reason with a hurricane. You are who they wrote about, who they sing about, who they will try to capture on film; they grab pieces but you are too fast and liquescent for any medium on earth.

You will be a captain of industry, ships, rockets; it all remains to be seen and you aren't telling. You will be a fireball who mysteriously possesses a font of mutinous knowledge, a ghost with a laugh like breaking glass ceilings, a racecar driver, a surgeon, a CEO, and Helen of Troy piloting her own ship of audacious hope and reckless confidence.

Super Kindergardener

You are to the right of your biggest brother, nearly his twin and technically in his shadow, and yet, somehow the sun curves just for you. Someone else’s face, borrowed pants, an explosion of hair longer but gentler than your brother’s, wearing a hat that’s far too big, clutching a hand-me-down truck, and repeating a story you heard your sister tell, and yet it’s all new. It’s all you. You seem to be the architect, the mastermind, the true power behind the throne; none of which makes sense except in the quiet assurance of your smile.

You will be scientist; mad or otherwise. You will be a kind genius who's always early and excited and ready to share, a warm firecracker, an enigmatic expert, a perfect paradox, and the voice of a generation.

Super Preschooler

You are directly behind me and your silence is deafening. All irises, you watch everything with an intensity that threatens to burn a hole through the sun itself. You give nothing away, except your rare wry smiles that reveal you have been here before and know all the secret passages. You’re not sure you trust us yet with the plots you’ve spun in eyes the size of Texas. Time will tell, but I’m not sure you will; cards close to your chest and probably up your sleeves.

You will be a revolutionary; the Rebel Alliance rises and falls under your steely gaze. You will be fierce and free, an undercover insurgent whose quiet poise will silence bars and boardrooms, no one will see you coming until it is too late and then they will see nothing else. Because you aren't here to make friends, you are here to save us all from ourselves.

Super Baby 

And even though I can't quite capture the colors, I'm gonna keep trying.
Same Awkward Time, Same Awkward Channel. 
See you next week! 

We're Back. Sorta.

To say we walked into the vet office would be overly generous. We fell in, plopped into the middle of the waiting room and then scattered in all directions like a litter of puppies. The staff herded us into an examination room, terror written all over their faces, and these are people who are bitten regularly. Once safely secreted away from the more sedate animal parents, the following happened, pretty much all at once.

1. Super Kitty emerged from her carrier, bounced up to the exam table, and attempted to burrow into the vet tech in an effort to get away from her human siblings.

2. Super Preschooler loudly announced her desire to have a dog, while draping herself with the sample leashes on display by the door, like an insane diva.

3. This set Super Kindergardener into a fit of epic proportions because he is terrified of dogs.

4. The fight between them went like this: "I Hate Dogs!" "Well, I LOVE Dogs!" "Super Kitty doesn't want a dog!" "I don't care, I do!" "You should care! She's sick, you heartless meanie!" "You're heartless! I want a dog!" This went on forever. Or three minutes. And at decibels only dogs and exhausted mothers can hear. I eventually had to side with Super K., and Super P. pouted with typical aplomb, after shedding all the leashes onto the floor.

5. During Dog War III, Super Baby managed to climb into the car carrier and I was only alerted to this fact by the vet tech quietly asking, "Should he be in there?" The following extraction was not pleasant for anyone and Super Baby perched on the carrier like an angry wraith for the rest of the visit.

Awkward Mom is back in the saddle! And by that, we mean regularly falling out of the saddle. Things are typically awkward and crazy over here, so we are not sure if regular blogging is gonna happen. However, small peeks into our cheerful insanity over on our Facebook page are more likely, so pop on over there if you get a chance. Unless you are one of the good people who gave it up for Lent........

See you soon! Same Awkward Time, Same Awkward Channel. No, wait, not this channel. The other channel. Didn't we just go through this? Come on, Awkward Mom. Get it together!

Off being Awkward! (For reals)

Hey, True Believers! Just wanted to let you all know that we are off being awkward. Like really far off. Like on the other side of the forest. Like 8 more analogies but I'm tired and the thesaurus is all the way across the room. So, mostly, like I am probably gonna take a big ol' break from blogging off. I kinda have been, all unofficial-like, but I thought it might be nice to tell you all that. Not that I think you are all dying for my next post or something. It's just that we've all kinda been on this journey together. This awkward, ambling, awesome, and astonishing journey. And I don't want to leave you all just hanging out in the middle of the forest, wondering when I am going to come back. I don't know if I'm coming back. There's a village over here, past the trees, and it's nice and lively and warm. I think I am gonna stay over here for awhile, out of the dark internet forest.

Be assured, it's nothing dramatic or exciting. It's just feels like it's time to be finished with this. Maybe it was an Ann Arbor thing. Maybe losing those As just knocked my alliteration game off and nothing will bring it back. Plus, I think I might be losing my awkward touch. I didn't trip once at pick-up yesterday and I actually made dinner last night. No smoke alarms, either. I know, right? Crazy.

Whatever it is, I just need to stop doing this right now and I wanted to let you know that and tell you that I don't think I would have gotten through those wild early parenting years without you all. I've never been a lone wolf superhero, always needed to be part of a team. So, thanks for being part of my team!

Now, don't be sad and please remember that comic book goodbyes aren't forever. No one ever dies in the comics; there are plenty of Lazarus Pits, magic, loopholes, made-up science, and selective memory just strewn all about the place. Give us a couple years, an inker we like, and a story line that warrants it, and we'll be back. Awkwardier than ever! (We're gonna brush up on our grammar before we come back though. No worries.)

See ya round the park, Readers!
I'm always happy to share my snacks!
And, if I really like you, my gossip!  

I'm not gonna take this blog down. I'm gonna leave it up like boxes and boxes of back issues. You know, for nostalgia trips and to shame me into eventually finishing all four of those baby books. So, feel free to poke around if you like awkward antics and adventures. And let's be real, everybody likes those. 

Awkward Mom vs. Pity

Dear Moms shooting me wary and pitying looks as my child throws the mother of all fits in the hallway-

Believe me, I get it. I really get it. I know that you don't know where to look, how to look, if to look. I know you aren't quite sure what to do with your hands, because they are aching to reach out to me and you think you shouldn't. I know that you think our unfamiliarity means I don't want your help or smiles. You are wrong. I want both. What I don't want it your pity. That I don't want. Keep your pity.

If anyone is going to be handing out pity, I'll be me. If you decide to give me nothing but pity from your perch up there in the my-child-would-never-behave-like-that clouds, then you are the one who needs the pity.

Because my child is amazing.

Because I am amazing.

Because we are some of the most amazing people you could ever meet and befriend, and you are missing the opportunity of a lifetime if you do not become friends with us right now.

Doesn't cost a lot, just a smile. The real kind. Actual compassion. A nod of understanding. A flash of connection. A brief word. An I've-been-there-too. An It'll-all-be-alright. A my-name's-Rumpelstilskin-what's-yours? That's it, and we're buddies for life.

Because we're life-buddy type of people. We're not fake. We're not fair weather. We're true and strong and here for you when times are tough and someone's throwing a fit in the hallway.

We're amazing. Truly amazing. Utterly amazing. Truly and utterly amazing. And in no need of pity. Keep that and give me your hand.

Anytime you are ready,
Awkward Mom

Truly and utterly amazing. 

Awkward Mom vs. Kindergarten

When the principal calls you three times and school has only been in session for a week and a half, that's awkward. 

Have you guys met Super Kindergartener? Here he is:

He's awesome. And wonderful. And thoughtful. And creative. And unique. And magical. And hilarious. And sweet. And imaginative. And kind. And strong. And smart. And all around fabulous.

He is also ill-named, because he is no longer going to be in Kindergarten.

After three phone calls from the principal, numerous melt-downs, 2 flat-out refusals to go to gym, countless tears (mine, his, and, I assume, the teacher's), and a week and a half, we have all come to the conclusion that Super Kindergartener is not ready for Kindergarten and would be much happier in preschool. So, that is what we are doing. As of tomorrow, Super Kindergartener goes back to being Super Preschooler. Only this time, it's all week, in the afternoons. It is a great solution and everyone is thinking this will help him ease into a full school day for next year or even later this school year, perhaps. Neat, tidy, and everyone's happy, especially Invisible Grandpa, Super Preschooler's imaginary friend, who doesn't much care for all-day school either and refused to attend with him. Happy happy.

So, why can't I stop crying?

Because they rejected my baby.

Now, I need say that, of course, no one rejected anyone and no one was in any way cruel or dismissive or anything but caring, as we sought a solution to Super Preschooler's obvious discomfort and frustration. I know that. I just wish someone would explain it to my heart.

The crap going down in there is downright cruel, dismissive, and anything but caring. Not towards the teachers, they did exactly what they were supposed to do. Not towards Super Preschooler, he did exactly what he was supposed to do. But me? I don't know. That's where my train goes off the tracks. That's where my Inner Voice is saying, "This is because I ate lunch meat that one time when I was 4 months along with him. This is because I didn't breast feed. This is because he didn't talk right away and I just let him take his time. This is because he walked late and I thought the physical therapy was premature. This is because I didn't do those math flashcards. This is because we have too many children. This is because I don't like to cook dinner. This is because we moved. This is because I didn't get him into therapy when his imaginary friends showed up. This is because of me. This is my fault. This is because I am a terrible mother."

Yeah. So, that's been going on since this morning when I went and picked him up and he smiled up at me and said "oh, thank goodness you are here. I was missing you a ton." And I took him into my arms and told him that he didn't have to miss me as much any more because we were changing our schedules and he was gonna eat lunch with me every day and then I took him to his new classroom down the hall and we met his new teacher and they played with markers for a little bit while I filled out all the new paperwork. And then I took him home and we ate lunch and watched Jake and the Pirates and now he is playing dinosaurs with his sister while I mentally abuse myself for having my child's best interests at heart. So, like 2 hours of mental abuse from my inner critic.

And that's 2 hours too long. So, you can just shut up now, Inner Voice. I don't have to deal with enough mom comparison, confusion, and conflict from the freaking entirety of the internet? I don't have enough self-doubt and worry to overcome without you piling on? Being a parent isn't hard enough? You have to start too? You are wrong and exhausting and, I've never told you this before, but sometimes your voice is incredibly whiny and grating. So, get it together, Inner Voice. I don't want to replace you with a soundtrack of Morgan Freeman reading Shakespearean sonnets on a loop, but I totally will. So, get it together, Inner Voice.  Get positive. Get supportive. Get with the program.

Get. It. Together. Right. Now.

It doesn't matter what we call him. 

He's Super, regardless. 

Awkward Mom vs. The Comic Con

Now, you would think with Awkward Mom's superhero-ness, or at least sidekick-ness, she would rock this battle. You would think wrong.

Nerds scare me. Technically, I fall in this category, given my interests, hobbies, and general lack of social appropriateness, but I have never specialized my nerdness and this leaves me at a distinct disadvantage. Now, nerd is a pretty broad term and what we are really dealing with here are comic nerds. The comic world has always housed many variations of nerds, plus, given the recent Marvel movie explosion, massive increase in cosplay, Joss Whedon's existence, and much easier access to anime, that world is now even bigger and more varied. I am what you might call an equal-opportunity-comic-nerd; I like it all. I think it's all kinda neat. I'm well versed in many fandoms (another new addition to the comic nerd world lexicon), but I do not exclusively identify with any particular one. This makes me the exception rather than the rule at a Comic Convention. That and the fact that I am wearing pants, but we'll get to that.

The last time I was at one of these, I was pregnant with Super Oldest. So, 8 years ago. Awkward Dad and I bought a lot of comics, went to a lot of talks about comics, and sat in the hall and watched all the cosplayers stroll by. This time, I am just watching the cosplayers stroll by; somethings never change. Awkward Dad, Super Preschooler, and Super Oldest are attending a talk about the new Super Girl TV show. Super Toddler just screamed when we tried to enter the room (He prefers Gotham and is not pleased with CBS's decision to air Supergirl in direct competition. Or he needs a nap.) He and Super Kindergartener are pushing the stroller up and down the plush hallways of the Rosemont Convention Center, pretending the chandeliers are spaceships that they are avoiding in a complicated and daring space race. I am trailing behind, feeling left out.

Look, I love comics. I love reading them. I love the movies they make from them. I love the people involved. OK, I mostly love the people involved, but I also fear the people involved. Most comic nerds are very passionate about what they write, read, dress-up as, and live, and I'm just not. I like it all, but I don't know it all. And believe me, they know that I don't know. It's as intimidating as the Perfect Moms at the park, but because I know that it shouldn't be, I get frustrated by the pervasive sense of not belonging that is coursing through me. I do too belong here! I just don't want to wear a steampunk corset and pocket watch necklace. Or a Wookie head. Or whatever that blue thing is over there. Or an ace bandage, red paint, a snorkel, and a thong (Yes, seriously. And no, I did not take a picture.) Or really anything other than this Muppets t-shirt and my comfy jeans.

I want to read it all. Watch it all. Be friends with it all. The things about comics, or any interest really, is the way it makes you feel. Curious and happy and moved and interested and much like the Supers, who are racing up and down the hallway in an imaginary battle with crystal chandeliers and a carpet with giant circles printed on it. (According to Super Kindergartener, those are the droids.) And I have a funny feeling that is what all of these people feel when they read or watch or think about their particular fandom, but actually talking to them about that? Oh hell no! I'd have to talk to them and then they would make fun of me because I would pronounce Ryuk wrong and I would be right back in middle school again. No, thank you!

Of course, that's when I realize we are being followed. Sure, there are tons of people wandering down the hallway; it's on the way to the bathroom, it's near a string of panel discussions, and it's next to the arcade. Most cosplayers are treating it like a catwalk. But we are winding a very specific path that Super Kindergartener is weaving to avoid some asteroids that his copilot just spotted, and a little girl is following us, exactly. And she is being followed by her mom, exactly. A little girl of about 2, dressed to look like Zoe from Firefly in an adorable green top and red vest, is being followed by her model-stunning mother, dressed head to top in prefect cosplay herself. They look, exactly, like they belong here, and they are getting closer. Crap.

Her daughter approaches Super Toddler and touches his hair. He has great hair; it's a standard greeting in the toddler world. He smiles up at her and she smiles down at him and then they start to hug. I am gonna have to interact with her mom, that hug did it. So, I take a deep breath, remind myself that rejection says more about the rejecter than the rejected, and look up at the mom. (Did I mention she is model-tall? She's model-tall. I'm looking way up.)

Me: So, um, that's a great Mal. You really got the suspenders right.

Cosplay Mom: Oh, really? Do you like it? I was a little nervous, you know, because it's my first con and I really could never pull that off. (She gestures toward a woman in a Leia slave girl outfit.)

Me: No, it's great! I've seen a lot of Mals today and you are definitely the best. Plus, that outfit (also gesturing to the Leia) is not safe when carting children around.

Cosplay Mom: Totally. I love your shirt;Gonzo is my favorite Muppet.

Me: Mine too! It's pretty awesome, isn't it? My husband made it for me.

Cosplay Mom: So fun! Is he in a panel discussion?

Me: Yeah, the one on Supergirl.

Cosplay Mom: Meh, I'll DVR it. I'm not missing Gotham.

Me: I know that's right. Who's this little Zoe? She's adorable.

Cosplay Mom: You don't think it's too much?

Me: Oh no, she looks great! Are you going to the children's costume contest tomorrow?

Cosplay Mom: There's a children's costume contest?!

Me: Yeah, ours are going in Star Wars. Bought costumes, like from Halloween. Nothing amazing.

Cosplay Mom: That is so the way to go. This is the absolutely last time I make a vest out of red vinyl. It was a nightmare.

Me: I bet!

(Awkward silence that the children fill by attempting to shoot down a chandelier.)

Cosplay Mom: Hey, um, thanks for being so nice.

Me: Um, OK, sure. It's nothing. I mean, you seem nice, plus you are wearing cap guns. I wouldn't want to be on your bad side.

Cosplay Mom: No, I mean it. No one had talked to me all day. And I was really nervous about bringing the kids and, you know, fitting in and whatever. I'm babbling, sorry.

Me: No, you make perfect sense! And believe me, you totally fit in. You should parade up and down the hallway with the rest of the cosplayers. You are like a professional.

Cosplay Mom: There are professional cosplayers?

Me: Supposedly. It's OK; you can think it's weird. I think it's weird.

Cosplay Mom: Oh, thank goodness. That is really weird. By the way, I'm Susan. And that's Zoe.

Me: For reals? That's adorable. And I'm Erin.

Cosplay Mom: Yes, for reals. That's why the costumes. That's not weird, right?

Me: Nope. It's not professional cosplay weird, I'll tell you that much.

Cosplay Mom: You are so funny! Can I hang out with you all day?

Me: If you don't mind shooting down spaceships in the hallway, sure thing!


For reals. I really think that God is using all these experiences to make me understand that there is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing about me that I have to hide or hone. Life is not middle school and I truly do fit in. Or maybe I don't fit in. Maybe I wasn't meant to fit in. Maybe I was meant to stand out. And, maybe, when we have the courage to stand out, someone else will stand out with us, and, maybe, that is when we will truly, finally, fit in. Or something deep and profound. Maybe. Check out these Comic Con pictures, while I figure it out!

For your casual Sith Lord. 

There were millions of toy booths,

Super Preschooler wanted them all. 

Because when you are too small to play in the arcade, 

you have to improvise. 

Adorable, she is. 

Super Toddler's initial costume was a little too hardcore. 

Celebrating their costume wins, 

All the kids won, but if I had to pick a winner, 

The Tick there was totally amazing.

Super Toddler laughs in the face of danger. 

I am totally dorking them up for life,

aren't I? 

Comic Cons make me tired too.

See you guys later!

Same awkward time, 

Same awkward channel!