Mom interrupted: Some things do change

When I was a kid the best thing ever was for the parents to get dressed up in their suits, pearls and pantyhose and drive off for the evening, leaving my older brothers and sisters, and we use this term loosely, "in charge."

Exactly 30 seconds after the Ford Country Squire backed out of the driveway they would sprint into the living room with a stack of records, turn on the hi-fi (which bore a resemblance to your iPod the same way your Big Wheel resembles the space shuttle), toss off the Nat King Cole records (because only a complete loser would be caught dead listening to their parents' music), slap on the Temptations and crank it up.

The neighbors would later tell my parents that the Motown Sound would be blaring out the shaking windows as they walked past. If they rang the bell, an instantaneous and complete silence would fall.

The neighbor would be greeted by a polite, albeit sweating, young man, communicate their message, and then head to the sidewalk to the tune of the Four Tops pleading, or in this case, screaming that baby, they did need lots of loving.

Indeed.

For a quarter and a Bristol Stomp lesson, I was the shill to look out for mom and dad. I'd see the station wagon pull back into the driveway and shout over the Supremes for everyone to cheese it. Line dancing would stop, George would yank the needle off the LP in mid-chorus while Barb and Mary would gather up the records and scatter to their bedroom and try to make it look like they had been conjugating German verbs all night (George's versagen German grade made it useless to pretend he'd ever been near a book).

Dad would then stroll in, fire up a Perry Como album, and we'd all discover that you haven't lived until you've blown out the speaker with "Papa Loves Mambo" after George forgot to turn the volume back down. We still have an all points bulletin out on dad's hair.

Some things never change. Now that I'm a mom, the best thing ever is when the van pulls out of the driveway carrying everyone but me, leaving me in Mom Nirvana: very much in charge of the hit trio Me, Myself, and I for four hours and a freshly-burned CD full of early Stevie Wonder and David Bowie. While I fold laundry I let loose like the opening scene to Risky Business, only without the prostitutes and more jumping up and down on the couch, which is definitely a risky business when you're old enough to be hoarding coupons for the fine family of Poise products, if you get my drift.

Because our dog, Elmer, is immune to the charms of the Bristol Stomp and is thus an unreliable lookout, one of the kids came home from work to find me oblivious and in my pajamas singing "It's Not Unusual" into my toothbrush in front of the rattling living room window. She stormed in, turned down the volume and said, "Mother. I'm trying to study."

I don't think she's going to be a loser and listen to my vintage Perry Como records, but she just marched off with my Queen CDs.

So I guess some things do change, after all.

Ahwatukee Foothills resident Elizabeth Evans can be reached at elizabethann40@hotmail.com. Her column appears monthly.