An Ode to Mrs. Heffley

Kolbe was in a friend's van when Last Christmas came on the radio.

"Kolbe," Rachel said. "This is your mother's favorite."

Rachel loves this song and especially likes  the 80's version. We shared a laugh about 80's music. It's like 80's hair or 80's make-up or 80's greed or 80's leg warmers -- big, colorful, over-the-top.  Rachel let me in on a secret: One of our very holy and seemingly reserved friends rocks out to Love Hurts.

Who knew?

To my children's utter amazement -- bewilderment might be a better word -- I have an 80's playlist of my own, one that includes 99 Red Balloons by Nena and What's Going On by Four Non-Blondes and Come On, Eileen by Dexy's Midnight Riders. Loud, brassy, and the musical equivalent of teased hair. Blood-pumping distraction if I'm in the middle of some detested chore like washing floors or entering a three inch stack of receipts.

As I've shared before, the boys look askance when my 80's alter-ego takes over and begins swaying to the music.

"Okay, Mrs. Heffley," Tim will say, patting my arm gently. "It's time to calm down."

My Hero

What? You don't know Mrs. Heffley?

Mrs. Heffley, that long-suffering mother from the Diary of a Wimpy Kid movies, is my hero. For a proper introduction to Mrs. Heffley, please rent the second Wimpy Kid movie -- Rodrick Rules.

Now, I could issue a lengthy list of disclaimers and warnings about the movie, but let me be honest: I laughed harder watching this movie than any other movie, EVER.

I get Mrs. Heffley. She's a forty-something mom with glasses and shoulder length brunette hair. She's a writer. She has three sons. She's prone to launching into speeches that begin, "All I want is for you boys to be friends . . . ", "I am really shocked . . . ", "Is it too much to ask . . ."

Too, too funny.

Thursday morning was a fiasco. Three days of sickness capped off by twelve hours of rain punctuated by little sleep and a growing anxiety about all the Christmas shopping I was not managing to accomplish -- ugh. On top of all that, the pantry was cleaned out. Now, I could have sent the kids to school with ice water and Reese's peanut butter cups to sustain them. But, no, self-sacrificing mother that I am, I went to the store at 7:43.  That's 7:43 a.m., as in morning. Who does this, you may logically wonder. Believe me, I ask myself this same question time and again. But rather than reflect too long on these unanswerable mysteries, I cranked up some tunes as I returned home at 8:03.

Forget the 80's.

Play That Funky Music came on, and I was rocking out.

I briefly wondered what would happen if I suddenly crashed the car. Oh, the scandal! Forget everything your mother ever told you about unexpected accidents and clean underwear. Anyone happening upon the crash scene would confront much more shocking discoveries.

Coming back from the grocery store at 8:03 on a school day? Who does that?

Two bottles of chardonnay and  -- what's this? -- four lunchables? Lunchables???

Do people really go out in public looking like that?

And the clincher: What --- what! -- is that noise?

That,  my friends, is solid gold, circa 1976.

Play that funky music, white boy.
Play that funky music right.
Play that funky music, white boy.
Lay down that boogie and play that funky music till you die…
Till you die…oh, till you die!

But I forget myself.

Back to Santa 104.3. Anne Murray is singing Silver Bells.