Like most moms, I spend all my time making sure my kids are fed, clothed, bathed and not sexting on their cell phones, so when the rare opportunity comes along to not act like a mom, I'm a bit confused.
Like last week, when my sister-in-law invited me to a private Dr Pepper concert at the Fontainebleau Hotel's club LIV with Pitbull.
That's Mr. 305, the "pump it up and back it up like a Tonka truck" former drug dealer from Miami. The blue-eyed, Cuban-American rapper who charms women with his Tony Montana rhymes.
Dale? (Go for it?)
It's summer. No homework. No bedtimes to enforce, no 6 a.m. alarms. My kids are old enough now to pour their own Cap'n Crunch.
I squeezed into my Spanx and my short black Forever 41 dress and sped my carpool-sized SUV over to South Beach.
I tried not to think about the fact that I was graduating from high school when Pitbull's mama was still wiping him with Wet Ones. But an even bigger obstacle than the age gap was the whole MOM thing.
I haven't been clubbing in more than 13 years. It's one of those things I've given up since becoming a mom, like sleeping naked and making illegal U-turns. I have trouble with juggling that virgin-whore-perfect mom-bad girl thing. I'm one of those all-or-nothing types, so when I threw myself into motherhood, I did it with so much force that I find it impossible to forget that role. I'm usually the voice of reason, the sober one. I am so defined by my mom responsibility that when I told a co-worker the next morning that I had been shaking my big mom butt to the crunk beat on Planet Pit the night before, she burst out laughing.
Fortunately, a significant number of people at this concert were conventioneers visiting from the Midwest, so I felt pretty fly. I found a perch on the 2nd floor, overlooking the stage and dance floor, and squeezed in next to the Latin media and the girls in the tight micro-minis trying to get the nod to slip in the side stage door. Pleasantly buzzed from my two-drink minimum, I had fun. Pitbull was an infectious entertainer, jumping around stage, spewing Spanglish, posturing in his well-tailored, skinny suit and shades. I texted photos and videos back to the hubby and kids at home. (My husband was watching Desperate Housewives on Netflix. "How appropriate," he texted back.)
At a pre-concert meet-and-greet with about 40 people, I was third in line to get my photo taken with Mr. Bull. He appeared older and craggier in real life, especially with his sunglasses off, but he graciously grabbed my waist and pulled me in tight for a quick pic. I gushed something about being a fan and living in Miami. He chuckled and squeezed me tighter. "Thank you, darlin."
I didn't see the tattoo on his left wrist, but I read about it later when I Googled him and showed some of his YouTube videos to my kids. The capital letters above Pitbull's hand are reportedly a tribute to Alysha Acosta, the first-generation Cuban immigrant and single mom who raised Armando Christian Pérez and kicked him out of the house at age 17 because she heard he was peddling dope.
It says: DIM (Do It for Mom).