Superstar

Try as I might, I can’t stop myself from fantasizing about what each girl will be like when she gets older. Monkey likes to bang on the piano, so she’ll probably be just like Norah Jones. Turtle likes to push a ball around the house with her head, so she’ll be the next Mia Hamm. I know I shouldn’t impose my unfulfilled dreams on them, but I wonder how hard that will be as they get older, especially if they are much different from me. I thoroughly enjoyed the spotlight as a child: piano recitals, awards assemblies, junior high cheerleading – it always felt completely natural for me to get on stage and be applauded. What if they don’t show an interest in music? Or don’t get straight As? Or, horror of horrors, aren’t athletic?

I should know, though, that youthful interests don’t necessarily translate into a professional career. I never hosted that national radio show I fantasized about when I practiced with my tape player in third grade. And even though I hung out on the West Mall of the UT campus listening to hippies play the harmonica, I didn’t end up the edgy anti-establishment leader I toyed around with in college. I didn’t even become the prestigious lawyer I imagined on my first day of law school.

Now I spend my days dicing turkey for lunch and fretting that I don’t have Halloween costumes for my babies. But I have a secret life, too. Inside my quiet suburban home, I am also a singer, a dancer, a comedian, an actor, and a concert pianist. I’m a gourmet chef, a magician, and the smartest, most interesting, most beautiful woman alive. My fans think I sing better than Julie Andrews and dance better than Kevin Bacon. I can’t even go to the bathroom without my paparazzi of two clamoring after me, intrigued by my every move. I expected a lot of things from motherhood. But I never expected that the adoring eyes of two little fans would be all the accolades I would ever need. Out there, I am a typical suburban mom. But in here, I am a superstar.