A Cliche I'm Embracing

A long long time ago, when Bill Clinton was just a friendly, big mac eating, flirtatious, long shot, the pundits said that IF he won, it would be thanks to the soccer mom vote.  I was a single twenty-something,  working as an assistant at a private school during the week and teaching skiing on the weekends.

I was (mostly) having a ball.  I had roommates in a big purple house.  We had parties. We had friends who made home-brew. One time there were 37 watermelons in our living room. (Why?  I don't know. But it was fun.  They make a tremendous noise when you chuck them off the roof.) And a lot of dishes in the sink--most of them mine. (I was a PIG! Sorry, Tia and Jeff!!) And man I was broke!  Teaching skiing was the only way I could afford to ski.  It didn't pay enough to afford gas AND beer, so we carpooled.  My love life was torturous: I was really good at dating guys I'd quickly realize I wanted to be shed of, but I was not so good at cutting them loose.  And I don't even want to go into the episode where I was the one who got cut loose!  The Horror!  The Humiliation!  The wretched snivelling (thank you to all the friends who put up with my misery! Boring!)

I remember driving from one job to another, the gas gauge hovering near E, listening to those pundits and thinking:  "Soccer mom.  Mini van.  Dog.  Sunglasses on top of my head.  Car full of kids in shin guards. Juice boxes.  No more dating.  Hallelujah!  And you get to decide who's president.  Doesn't sound so bad.  I could do that, maybe.  Someday."

So I voted for Bill.

Someday is here:

Some girls in the carpool!  Yay!  We banished the boys to the way back. 

A van full of freezing, muddy, hungry kids singing ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.  I have a slight headache.  Bill, do you feel my pain? Still, when I think back to the era of diaper bags and nap schedules and midnight feedings,  it's comparatively light duty.  I'll take it.

Do I still get to pick the president when I'm an empty nester who drives a mini?