I am in my kitchen getting dinner ready. The strains of Bruno Mars’ 24 K Magic are floating around in the air, and in my head I am not a mom pushing 40, but in a gold bikini, shaking my backside to that mesmerizing voice.
A few minutes later, I look up and I see my 9-year-old daughter, Adz, staring at me. “Wassup?” I nod to her, still in my hippity-hop mood. “Uh, Mom … you know that’s mom dancing at its best, riiiight?” she says in that drawl that only 9-year-old girls can manage, of course.
And just like that, poof, there go my dreams of getting down with da kids and Bruno Mars, gold bikini optional. Thanks for that, child of mine! (Although, the very fact that I used the phrase getting down with da kids, should probably disqualify me from ever getting down with them.)