Hip Mom Rule #4: Be a Hip Mom Under Pressure

I usually consider myself a levelheaded person with decent reserves of patience. I can handle both kids yelling for my attention right when the phone rings. I can handle being pooped on, spit-up on, vomited on, and cried on. A hip mom is a patient mom.

But there are days when even the most patient mom is tested. I never hand my two-year-old my keys when we are out. I have a slightly irrational fear of him throwing the keys into oncoming traffic (actually, it’s not that irrational – he did throw a rock out his window once while we were traveling 75 mph down the interstate, narrowly missing the car behind us). It’s a small thing, but as we’ve learned in life, it’s the small things that make or break a hip mom. So, keys in Mom’s pocket.

Then one day . . . I took the boys to the Art Museum, thinking I was being on the cutting edge of hip-momness by taking my children to such a cultural experience while so young. Let me tell you, it made a serious dent in my patience reserve. First of all, it was well below freezing outside, so the kids and I were bundled up so tightly we could hardly put our arms down (Christmas Story anyone?), and then I had to schlep our coats, hats, and mittens all over the museum without bumping into any priceless art. Then my oldest discovered the echo-factor of the different galleries and a contest emerged between the two kids. Other museum patrons shot me daggers while the security officers stifled giggles.

After forty-five minutes, I decided this cultural trek needed to end, as my patience was growing quite thin. We began the process of bundling back up. I put the boys’ coats and mittens on. I handed Joe my keys and put on my hip coat and mittens, complete with matching scarf. As we stepped onto the elevator, I thought to myself, “Where are my keys” just as I heard the keys hit the floor and the elevator doors efficiently snap shut. Crap. When the doors finally reopened, I peered through the gap in the floor and saw my keys glittering happily at the bottom of the elevator shaft. “I’m a hip mom. I will not lose my cool,” I muttered to myself.

It took twenty minutes and the complete shutdown of the main entrance elevator to retrieve my keys. This time the security staff made no effort to conceal their amusement. I graciously thanked them as I straightened my hip coat, gloves, and matching scarf. It was mightily embarrassing, but I kept my cool, just as any hip mom would.