How do I know I'm a mom? Let me count the ways...

You laughed when, as your son hopped out of the car at school he took note of your lunch sitting on top of the stack of mail you grabbed out of the mailbox on the way out of the driveway and inquired, "Who mailed you that sandwich?"

You understand the power of a simple pronoun.  And no matter how hard you try to convince her that she should be saying, "Ride it, cowgirl" (with emphasis on the comma) she still says, "Ride a cowgirl!"  Loudly.  And in public.  Regularly.  (Why?  Why does she do that?)

You should feel proud of your enterprising son for making the newspaper with his lemonade stand.  Instead, it's a little embarrassing.  You swear you don't make him buy his own school supplies.  (Your husband contends it just shows how practical and responsible he is.  We'll go with that.)

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Because you weren't in the mood to deal with dripping, sticky ice cream on your most recent trip to Dunkin' Donuts/Baskin Robbins, you pulled into a spot and simply ask them what kind of donut they wanted.  Their answer, of course, was "ice cream".  You lied a little bit and told them the freezers were broken.  That worked really well.  Until they noticed the lady in the car next to you licking away at an ice cream cone with a BR paper wrapper on the cone.  Busted.  (But really, a glazed donut is still a treat!  They ate them, happily.)

You made a trip to Maryland on the first Monday of the month just so you could have your kids faces painted at one of your favorite local restaurants.  

(And you're glad the horns on his forehead are covered by his hair helmet.)

Of course, what you failed to consider is that since you were driving back to Georgia directly after dinner from the restaurant, and hoping to get back just in time to drop your son off at school the next morning is that there wouldn't be time for a proper bath/shower for the son.  And what resulted was a swipe or two with a wet washcloth that left your son walking to his first grade classroom looking like a seven year old Adam Lambert.  (Apparently the black doesn't come off that easily.)  

Since Grandmom hung the pinatas up by the pull-strings, you let the kids resort to some good old-fashioned pinata bashing.  Evidently, it's not too difficult for a seven year old boy to knock down a pinata in one fell swoop.  While holding onto a drink.  Which, amazingly, he didn't even spill.  (He can't even do that when he's not beating a pinata with one hand.)

You now know it takes a mere three bites for your 15 month old to inhale a cupcake.

If you can't find your wily three year old, you know to check Grandmom's built-in lazy susan.

Can you see her?

Discovered!

After leaving Cici's All-You-Can-Eat pizza, you feel moderately guilty for only paying the kids price for your excessive pizza-eating seven year old boy.  They can't ban you for that, can they?

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