I am now, I mean NOT, my mother

Today was my first voyage as a library volunteer. I dressed in what I would call responsible, yet stylish, mom attire. But when I walked out of the door, it hit me: I'm my mother.

Not that being my mother is bad thing. But I had this immediate flashback to walking into the library in elementary school, and seeing my mom in her responsible, but stylish, mom attire. (Of course, those were the 80s, so her clothes featured bigger hair and bigger glasses.) Wow. Sitting on the other side of the desk is a totally different perspective.

I happen to volunteer during my son's library time. So I'm feircely alphabetizing, while trying to keep one ear, one eye, on my son. Is he being unruly? Is he answering the questions? Is he a hand-raiser or not? But more importantly was the wave and the "That's my mom!" I got when he entered the room. Ah, approval. Whew.

Is that what my mom was thinking as she sat behind the desk? Was that really all about me? I know that it was, and even then I knew she was wanting to help out, but that wait for approval, the one eye out for the books being selected. I had no idea how proud she must have been to see me there with my class, to get a short glimpse inside the walls.

Well, I managed not to embarrass myself as a volunteer, I think. I spoke when spoken to, I knew my alphabet, I worked hard. We'll see what they think the next time it's my turn.