Career Day XXX.

My son just turned six last week. He has been in kindergarten the past seven months- half days, so the contrast between here and not here isn't quite so apparent. I love taking part in his little projects: the finger painting, learning his letters, the little brain-teaser puzzles... I think the whole learning experience has been just as new and exciting for me as it has been for him. But that was before the note he brought home last week:

MONDAY, MARCH 22ND- CAREER DAY! STUDENTS BRING YOUR PARENTS TO CLASS!

I almost forgot to breathe. Here was my darling, little angel all abuzz with excitement, "Cara's daddy's a cop-officer! Marissa's mommy is a secermatary! Jeremy's daddy works on the Wall Street! He sells stockings and bonds!" (I wish I were making this stuff up.)

I thought, perhaps, his excitement would attenuate as the day progressed; but, alas, motherhood holds no such luck. On and on her prattled about Career Day, for hours on end. There were to be cookies and juice, after all- cop officers, 'secermataries', cookies, juice- and of course- a veritable shindig such as this just wouldn't be complete without its token porn-star mom. The iconic antagonist of mini-van driving, bake sale endorsing, PTA attending mothers, nation-wide.

In Amsterdam, I'd be woefully commonplace. In Iran, I'd probably be strangled to death with my own ovaries. But in AMERICA, the good 'ol US of A, I happen to be just plain old stigmatic. That "poor child's" mother who pimps out her body for sneakers, vaccines, and regular unleaded for her red Honda Civic.

However, cowardice has never been my modus operandi. So the very next day, head held relatively high, I bravely led myself to the slaughter- with the cogent question still left unanswered: how in the hell do I tell 30 six-year olds that I have sex for money?

In the end, it was Occam's Razor all over again. You don't. You lie in order to avoid the scathing looks. The curled lips and only half-disguised mutterings. To spare that little boy of yours the stigma you all too willingly bear in order to see through yet another day.

Once in front of those thirty questing eyes, their little chins cupped in tiny hands, the lie came almost reflexively. "Hi, I'm XXXXX's mom and I'm in the movie industry!" The whole room whispered excitedly, my little boy beaming with pride.

Not exactly a lie, is it?

A cute, red-headed girl in overalls, freckles speckled desultorily across her face, raised a hand, "Can we watch one?" she asked excitedly.

Another boy piped, "My dad has her movies, probably. He has alla' the good ones."

I swallowed heavily, sweat beginning to accrue beneath my halter-top. Who would have thought- often bearing my body, and its most intimate functions in front of an entire filming crew on numerous occasions- that a few clueless, kindergartners could fluster me so easily?

I awkwardly deflected a few more questions before being (gratefully) saved by my son's teacher as she hurried on, ushering in the next waiting parent. "Maybe one day XXXXXX's mom can bring in one of her videos for us to watch. Wouldn't that be nice of her, class?" she asked, placating her disappointed students.

A chorus of cheers greeted the suggestion.

I don't think fire trucks could accurately replicate the exact hue of my face at this point. I was beyond embarrassed. In fact, I've seen bloody tampons with less vivid pigmentation.

But soon, the entire affair was put behind me- but I doubt it ever to be fully forgotten. And that night, looking into the mirror, I let the robe slide from off of my body. I studied the curves and creases. The undeniably embedded symmetry that the world unfailingly defines as beauty. I look, and try to see past this image. Past the superficial aesthetics. I look for that splotch of grey between the lines. That small annex of truth, so cleverly hidden in each of us, disguising who we truly are.

I see nothing. But still, I am not ashamed. Only bewildered. Does the things I do make me a good mother, I wonder, or just another dissolute grain of humanity, forever hiding truths behind the veil of necessity?

I pray desperately for the former.