By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

On May 4, 2013 I went to the Prom – but not the kind with all the awkward teenage drama. This one was a “Mom Prom,” a tradition which began several years ago in Michigan by a group of mothers. Women liked the idea so much that the concept spread, and this spring there are more than 40 “Mom Proms” held across the country – each one raising money for a local non-profit group.

Since my two prom experiences happened 22 years apart, I made a list of the differences between them to see just how much has changed.

While getting ready for my high school prom, I didn’t wonder if they make industrial-strength Spanx, nor did I need them. My metabolism was young, carbs were still friendly and I didn’t have the good sense to appreciate the glorious “thigh gap” of my youth.

My high school prom date was a boy named Matt who was perpetually working on a 1968 Mustang in his garage. I was sure we were destined for each other. We weren’t. Destiny was much smarter than I was.

I attended the Mom Prom with about 300 women – all of whom had left their husbands at home. Why pay a sitter for a girls’ night out when there’s a perfectly good father who can hold down the fort?

I styled my own hair before I went to my high school prom – a poor decision painfully proven by the prom pictures. I was still hanging on to those unfortunate “big bangs” of the 80s that defied gravity.

Ironically, the dark blue dress I wore to the Mom Prom was almost identical in color to the sequined number I wore when I was 18. The dress size? Not quite so identical. But who’s counting? That skinny dress was three kids and two decades ago.

For my high school prom, I did what every girl did when it was time to find shoes. I got those terribly uncomfortable ivory pumps that could be dyed to match the exact color of your dress. I wore them all night because they were high and made me feel like the mature woman I was deluded enough to think I already was. By midnight, I couldn’t feel anything below the ankle.

At the older and wiser Mom Prom, we posed for pictures for about 20 minutes while wearing our sparkly, strappy, rhinestone-studded heels. Then we took them off and promptly deposited them into a “Shoe Bank” where they stayed for most of the night while we boogied barefoot on the dance floor to “Brick House.”

Here I am with 300 of my closest Mom Prom friends dancing barefoot to “Brick House.” It. was. awesome. (Photo credit: Lisa Mac Photography)

Speaking of dancing, I did plenty of it at both proms. But the day after the Mom Prom, my legs were sore, my back hurt, and my friend said she thought she might have danced her hip out of joint when the Prince song “Let’s Go Crazy” came on. We mid-life mamas can still shake it, but we need several Advil the next day.

At my first prom, my friends and I were thrilled that our curfew had been extended and we could party until well past midnight. We would have danced until dawn if our parents had let us.

At the Mom Prom, several women left bleary-eyed by 10 p.m. because the thought of sleep was even more alluring than the freedom to party all night. Plus they knew their kids would be up by 6 a.m. asking for waffles.

So which prom was better? Both were fun. But I loved how the second one let me feel footloose and 18 again without erasing the blessings two decades of “livin’” have given.

Gwen Rockwood is a mom to three great kids, wife to one cool guy, a newspaper columnist and co-owner of nwaMotherlode.com. To read previously published installments of The Rockwood Files, click here. To check out Gwen’s new book, “Reporting Live from the Laundry Pile: The Rockwood Files Collection,” click HERE.

Author Photo credit: Lisa Mac Photography

I know I’m probably too old to be this excited about a new toy, but, nevertheless, I am. I’ve got a new swing, and I love it.

We hung the one-seater swing from the high ceiling of an enclosed back porch where there are lots of windows and not much else. It’s a long, narrow room with a stone floor, and, for the nearly eight years we’ve lived here, the room has stumped me every time I try to put furniture in it. A sofa was too big. A chair was too small. The side table never looked right. Nothing seemed to work, so it became one of those hodge-podge rooms where mismatched furniture and neglected exercise equipment go to die.

Then last winter, our rule-breaking Beagle, Charlie, got bored and decided to eat the arm off the old chair on the porch because it was apparently much tastier than the three chicken-flavored dog toys in the room. So I finally dragged the dilapidated furniture out and started over with a blank slate. That’s when I found the swing.

I spotted it in a store, and it had a cushioned seat and a colorful pillow nestled against its wooden back. Its cocoon-like shape practically insisted that I sit down and stay a while. As soon as I did, I knew that a swing was the thing that odd back porch of mine had always been missing.

Obviously, this is not my backyard, as I have no ocean back there. But I love this shot of the Swingasan chair. I picked it up at Pier 1, in case you need one, too. Happy swinging.

Sometimes I think about the swing when I’m working or running errands. I make little deals with myself that, if I can just finish this project or get caught up with the laundry, I’ll let myself retreat to the porch for some time to read in the swing. The busier things get, the more I find myself craving some time to just “play.”

The truth is that most people crave play, whether we admit it to ourselves or not. Even the word itself shows up in so much of what we know as fun – playing music, playing ball, playing cards and even playing hooky. When we go to the theater, it’s often to see a “play.” Long past the age of Lego blocks and hopscotch, we all need some play time. Sometimes it takes something as simple as a swing to make us remember that play is a part of who we are and, instead of wasting our time, it makes us appreciate it even more.

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. once said “Men do not quit playing because they grow old; they grow old because they quit playing.” And if he was right, then the smart thing for me to do would be to sit on the porch and swing myself a little younger every chance I get. Perhaps you should, too.

Don’t bother with grown-up guilt about goofing off now and then. Play often makes us better at our work because it gives a creative spark some room to run. When we allow ourselves the time to play – to chase a new idea just for the fun of it – there’s no telling where we might go.

Gwen Rockwood is a mom to three great kids, wife to one cool guy, a newspaper columnist and co-owner of nwaMotherlode.com. To read previously published installments of The Rockwood Files, click here. To check out Gwen’s new book, “Reporting Live from the Laundry Pile: The Rockwood Files Collection,” click HERE.

Author Photo credit: Lisa Mac Photography