aces by jonny
	These days I’m haunted by my younger self. She’s a judging little thing, looking at my life and shaking her head. She’s confused. If someone had told her that one day she would be staying home with her baby while her husband supported them, she would have rolled her eyes and laughed nervously. She knows what stay-at-home moms are like. They’re like her mom, an old fashioned midwestern housewife who stayed home with three children and claims it was the happiest time in her life, right next to being pregnant and giving birth. My snotty younger self secretly thinks women who stay home with their kids are bored. And they have no lives. And here I am, more than a few years older, having a life and staying home with my baby. Now I’ve got it pretty easy. My husband works up the street at the neighborhood church and we see him a lot. Plus I have a really smart dog who’s a wonderful conversationalist. But still, I am spending the majority of my day with a five month old who doesn’t know English. The baby thinks I’m funny, and that helps, but funny to him is sticking out my tongue and crossing my eyes. The other day we were cuddling on the couch and gurgling and grunting when suddenly he shoved his fingers in my nose and farted, followed by insane giggling and high pitched screaming. I looked over at my imaginary movie camera and gave a humble smile. It’s strange to become something you never imagined. It’s also strange to see yourself one way and then realize others see you very differently. In my old life as an actor I played a game where you’re given a playing card that decides your status, with the Ace being highest and the Two lowest. No one else knows what card you have, and the idea is that while interacting with each other your status is revealed by your behavior, because a King acts differently than a Three. The game gets interesting, and a little uncomfortable, when you are given a second card to put on your forehead. Everyone sees this card but you. It tells the group how they see you, while you see yourself as the card in your hand. You can imagine how it feels to think you’re a Queen while everyone else is treating you like a Two. Just about the time I get to thinking of myself as being really cool and interesting, I catch my reflection and realize I look like my mom, suddenly reduced to about a Four. Maybe a Three. The other week I was at church and suddenly didn’t recognize myself. There I was standing in the back holding a supermodel baby on my hip while my clean-cut, suit-wearing husband Troy was at the pulpit welcoming everyone. We came to New York City to be actors, and now all of a sudden he’s wearing a fancy preacher costume and talking to a church full of people while I hold our child? What the hell happened? If I had been my younger self observing the three of us I would have been shocked at this seemingly conservative little family. I would not have guessed that Troy’s suit was from a play he did several years ago and was purchased at the Goodwill store for $15. I would not have known that my future self felt a little awkward holding the supermodel baby and hated the idea of being thought of as a preacher’s wife. Because I’m not a preacher’s wife. I swear. But I looked like one. I care too much what people think of me. But more than anyone else, I think I care too much what 19 year old Jonny thinks of me. She mocked the idea of getting married and having babies and prided herself on being very independent. Would she be disappointed with my choices? Would she look down on me for growing old and remind me rather impatiently that I’m not making a living as an actor? Would she see me as low status now that I’m a stay-at-home mom? Would she be mad that I cut off all her hair? Who does she think she is anyway? Here’s what I want to say to that youngun. I want to point out that with age comes experience and wisdom and that I’m a lot smarter than she is. I want to not so delicately compare her boyfriend to my husband. I want to hear her speak on matters close to her heart and then listen to me speak on those close to mine. I want to say, honey, you look better with short hair. Most of all I want to let her hold the baby and watch her heart melt and fall in love and realize it’s okay that she’s going to change her mind. And then I want to roll my eyes at her very dramatically and put my hands on my hips as I perform the following monologue. I’m a wife whose incredible husband supports her. I chose to leave my job. I don’t make any money. And I’m happy. I have mastered speaking in baby voices. I am very successful at making silly faces. Sometimes I kind of dress up to take a walk so that I feel pretty. My idea of a good time is lying on the floor trying to out-babble a 17 pound person instead of sitting in a bar with a bunch of friends. When I am with my friends all I can think about is the baby. It’s hard for me not to monopolize the conversation with tales of rolling over and teething. I’m still cool and interesting with plenty to offer the world, and I will act again and I will go to bars again, but right now my greatest contribution is this little baby who makes magnificent spit bubbles. And I have a feeling he’s going to be a fantastic human being. So if you see me wandering the neighborhood pushing a baby stroller with spit-up on my shirt, don’t be surprised. Maybe you see me as a Two, but I’m carrying a much higher card, and someday you’ll agree. Right now I’m a housewife. And because of this, I will forever look at moms and housewives and see them for who they are. They’re not only Queens; they’re Aces. There, I told me.