#rockermom

We all know at least one. The cool mom who has an edgy mystique about her. The mom who wears skinny ripped jeans, a cropped leather jacket and (oh-so-cute) ankle boots like it’s NBD. The mom who talks about all her creative projects, her bracelets jingling as she runs a hand through her effortlessly tousled hair. You really want to hate how cool she is but she’s such a damn rock star. And in your mind you are her or at least aspire to be her.

I was cool once. In my late teens I was pretty ‘alternative.’ I hung out at nightclubs in downtown Johannesburg wearing my all black uniform of short skirts and leather jackets with the requisite Dr. Marten boots. I rubbed elbows with punks and skinheads while I chain-smoked and downed Tequila shots. Back then my night would just get started at 10 p.m. and I’d roll in at 9 a.m. after a night of dancing, feeling young and carefree. My mom used to say I’d probably get married wearing Doc boots under my wedding dress.

And then I moved to Canada, got married (and no I didn’t wear Docs on my wedding day) and had three children. I traded in my punk persona for more comfortable mom jeans (with a little give in the waist) and canvas sneakers. I (sensibly) gave up smoking and the sight of Tequila now makes me instantly heave. When I became a mom, life as I knew it changed. I gave birth to three beautiful children and suddenly being out clubbing all night didn’t seem so important. I was too busy feeding and consoling babies through the nighttime hours. I now have twin boys, aged 15 and a 12-year-old daughter, and I have loved watching them grow and become the amazing people that they are. I’ve never looked back at my wild youth. Until recently.

A few months ago my husband and I went to a Depeche Mode concert. For me, Depeche Mode is the symbol of my angst-ridden teenage years. It reminds me of all those nights, age 16, I would blast “Personal Jesus” in my bedroom while my parents yelled at me to turn down the music. Or how I’d dance with abandon with my friends to “Just Can’t Get Enough” at someone’s house party, eyeing out cute boys while we sipped illicit lukewarm ciders. So, I was really excited about this concert. I dressed in my edgiest outfit of skinny black jeans, boots and a cropped black jacket. I took a long time with my make-up and added some extra black eye-liner as an homage to my youth. I felt great.

We got to the stadium and went to the bar to get a drink. As we waited in line I started looking around at the other concert goers and was met with a sea of cool moms (and dads) around my age. Everybody there clearly had never lost their coolness. The alternative punk vibe practically oozed out of their leather-clad tattooed pores. You could tell they hadn’t just dressed up in their funkiest finery for this one night. They were inherently cool and I felt like an impostor. How had this happened? How is it they had stuck to their punk roots while I clearly had become a middle-aged frump?

I’ll be honest, as much as it was one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to, I was a little distracted for a few days afterwards. I couldn’t stop thinking about all those people who looked like they could have walked right off the cover of a Clash album. How had I strayed so far from who I was when I was 20 while they had all clearly retained their alternative style? I thought a lot about the fundamental differences between me and those people. Did they parent differently? Why do some of us give up that part of ourselves when we become parents?

After a few days I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I stopped obsessing about my lost youth and started reminding myself about all I’ve gained over the past 20-something years. I have a husband who still makes me laugh after 23 years of marriage, who I love spending time with. I have a career as a freelance writer that brings me so much joy. I have three beautiful children who have taught me so much about myself and about what it takes to be a good parent.