I catch a glimpse of myself in your eyes

and the view is not flattering.

A trace of disdain escapes

as you smile at me and look away.

What is the problem?

One thousand and one possibilities

immediately come to mind.

I am 39 and single

a renter

frumpy dresser

in this neighborhood

of high-six-figure homes 

and well coifed stay-at-home moms.

We carpool our daughters to gymnastics 

and so taking a deep breath

I ignore the attitude

and approach you for small talk.

Your dismissiveness continues

but then

a small miracle occurs

and you are forthcoming with your thoughts

on what is wrong with me.

(Being from Chicago, I appreciate directness.  Come on you Lutheran sons of farmers, just say what is on your mind!) 

So your daughter tells me you have 3 older children?

Ah!

There is nothing wrong with ME.

You have me confused

with my daughter's birth mother.

And since my kid

is in the go-tell-it-on-the-mountain

stage of trauma

who knows what you have heard

on your bi-weekly car trips?

Tales of drug deals, maniac boyfriends,  

teenage kids scattered around the country

in and out of jail?

I smile.

No.

She has older sibings

but I just adopted her a couple of years ago.

The sun comes out.

Trumpets blare.

Your eyes reveal my transformation from

drug addicted loser

to woman-without-sin.

Mother Theresa.

I am a HERO for godsakes! 

My smile back is genuine

for a moment

until I remember

that I am no saint.

In fact, I yell when I am angry

I swear like a sailor

my parenting style is somewhat chilly

I am sure I have scarred my child's heart more than once

and

I could go on

but the point is 

I am not my child's Holy Savior.

Thank you for reminding me.