I'm not a Karen; I'm an Angela

We're sitting by the pool tonight and suddenly a group of five 20-somethings shows up. They're in full Spring Break mode, even if we are at a pool that is mostly populated by families with kids 15 and under. The first boy (man? man-child?) loudly proclaims, "Watch this," and does a front flip into the pool. In the shallow end. Three feet. His friends cheer and the next two boys do the same. 

Greg and I sit in our chairs watching, shaking our heads. I glance at our own boys in the pool. They're grinning ear to ear, loving every minute of it. 

Justin, our youngest and most-likely-to-dress-as-Jim-Belushi shouts, "Do a black flip!" And the boy-man does. a. back. flip in 3-feet of water. He jumps up and as his friends admonish him, he says, "The kid wanted a back flip." 

You can imagine Justin's reaction. I shook my head and told Justin to stay out of it. 

For the next half hour, the Spring Breakers flip into the pool, tossing the two girls in the group on their shoulders and playing chicken. I sat in my chair and cringed at how close they were to the edge, my shoulders raising in anticipation, looking around for Someone In Charge. 

Finally at 9, when the pool was supposed to close but showed no sign of closing, my family gathered our trash and pizza boxes and goggles. It was time to head back to our condo. As I passed by a few of the Spring Breakers, I couldn't stop myself. I leaned down and said, "I'm your mom's voice reminding you to be careful tonight. Have fun, but be careful."

The kids looked up, mid-flirt, disoriented by alcohol and hormones. They smiled, not hearing me, not really. 

My own kids were mortified. With a capital-M. 

"Moooooooom," they whispered. "You are such a Karen." 

"I am not," I told them. "I'm an Angela. I can't stop myself. When you are a 20-something and doing dumb stuff I hope someone tells you the same. That your mom is always there."

They rolled their eyes. Because that's what they do to me now. I remember doing the same to my own mother, but it doesn't make it any less annoying on this end of things. What's the kid-version of a Karen? That's what I want to call my kids, doing the time-worn dance of the young, acting like they're the first to ever feel mortified. 

In the meantime, though, I'll keep watching out for the young adults who aren't quite done being kids. Everyone needs an Angela.