My Secret Identity

by Beth Lane

I can't wait to see the looks on their faces.

All their lives my children have assumed that their father and I were about as exciting as dry toast and plain yogurt. In reality we are more like salsa. A commonplace condiment maybe, but it is also a sneaky one. We often have a little more "kick" than you expected when you first scooped us up on the tortilla chip of your assumptions.

I'm getting hungry. ...

What I mean to say is that being a parent is a lot like being a superhero. You need a secret identity in order to keep your sanity.

Someday, when my boys are all firmly established in their own households, I'm going to drop the bomb. I'll wait until they're secure and smug in the knowledge of their own "coolness." Then, I'll hip them to the fact that not only were we cooler than they ever imagined, but we were actually real human beings. The Brady Bunch, Stepford dork routine was just an act put on for their benefit.

First off, I'm going to clear up the sex thing. I know intellectually they must realize we've had sex at least three times, but a sex LIFE? What a riot to tell them how we once made mad passionate love on a pool table during the wedding reception of our two closest friends. (I'll leave out the part about being six months pregnant at the time—it kills the romantic illusion.) The shock of that little revelation could very well make up for all the times one of them came down with the stomach flu while sleeping in MY bed.

At some Thanksgiving dinner in the future, they'll start bragging about how they once put one over on us by having a party while we were out of town. I'll just have to let it slip that their father and I spent that vacation stumbling drunk around Toronto, singing on the subway and throwing up in fancy hotels. I'll make sure to do it when they've brought their new girlfriends home for the holidays. The humiliation of finding out your cookie-baking mother was once thrown out of The Hard Rock Café should be more than adequate payback for all the cub scout jamborees I was forced to attend.

Revenge is sweet.

What about that time I went deep undercover trying to expose a guy who owed us money? He was claiming to be out of work, when in fact I knew he was operating a landscaping business off the books.

Borrowing my grandmother's beat-up powder blue Impala, I decided to have myself a "stakeout". The plan was to snap pictures of his truck full of lawn mowing equipment as he left for work that morning. Not wanting to be recognized, I studied my reflection in the mirror. Tucking my long hair into a baseball cap, I donned a flannel shirt and dark glasses. I still looked like me only wearing a hat and dark glasses. I needed something more. ...

Cutting up some craft fur, I fashioned a brown mustache for myself and stuck it to my lip with tacky glue. According to my husband, who was laughing so hard I was afraid he might pee himself, I now looked like "Paco—The Columbian drug lord from hell."

Perfect!

Armed with a camera and very little sense, I waited outside the guy's house. Incredibly, his neighbors never called the police to report a suspicious character hanging around and my disguise worked beautifully. I'm sure my prey knew he was being followed, but to this day he has never realized it was me. Long from now, I'll regale my little grandchildren with the tale of their granny desperately snapping pictures during a high-speed chase while wickedly high on glue fumes. They'll smile and nod indulgently, while my oldest son asks if I've taken my medication today. It's a good thing Grandpa took photos because no one will believe ... I am Batman.

Copyright © Beth Lane 2003