Hey gang, It’s Spring Break for us. I’m taking the kids to see some family so in my stead my dear blogger friend Alexandra Schultze is going to hold down the fort. She is funny and dear. Take it away!
I met Daphne online four years ago. With her posts that blog about the warts and all of life, along with videos that made me laugh out loud every time, she pulled me through a very difficult patch in my life. I am forever grateful for that.
In this spirit of gratitude, I feel it my sacred duty to return the favor, and give Daphne a peek as to what’s ahead; when those you once carried on your hip now tell you “you ain’t no longer hip.”
Right now, my friend Daphne is loving her days as the mommy of beautiful Vivien, and an adorable pre-schooler, Rex.
Ah, the sweet days when you could contain your children within the confines of your home and were in charge of every thought and deed that came out of them.
Welcome to what’s not that far up ahead, Daphne. Welcome to Teen Angst Land.
I went to college in the 80’s, and I, back then, had this as my daily uniform:
The $10 a tube matte red lipstick, the mismatched earrings, the Ray-Bans. You can’t see the Walkman I’ve got in my hand, but it was there, along with the Pat Benatar cassette playing: “You’re a heartbreaker, dreammaker, lovetaker, don’t you mess around with me… no nonono no!”
Time stands still. It will always, I am convinced of this in 1984. I have been walking tall and sniffing pies in heaven, as my grandmother used to tell me in Spanish, ever since.
Flash forward to a morning when getting ready to take teen DDG* son clothes shopping, I pull on my 15-year-old cowboy boots, stand up ready to go, and I say, “All right. Let’s go.”
And, he– being 15 years old, says the words that freeze any woman in her tracks: “You’re going like that?! Mom!?”
The following knee jerk responses run through my head:
- never let them see you sweat
- they sense fear
- don’t lose your dominance
- speak with confidence
- maintain the status quo
- do NOT buckle
- keep your pole position
But I’m a woman, my appearance is my weak spot. I eek out,”Whaaaat, whaaa — umm, what is it that you mean, honey?”
“Mom. The way you look. You need a trip to the mall, not me.”
A woman and her appearance. Put the two together, and the images of how you still see yourself despite reality fight to be heard first:
I was hot!
Here, see? A picture in case you don’t believe me.
Wait, go ask your dad. No. Don’t.
I’ve got love letters in a box upstairs, behind my boots, that would sear your young eyes!
I once had to double book two dates for the same night, little boy.
You can’t imagine …
But, no… no well adjusted, normal, grounded mom would ever go there with her child. He already had enough terror in his voice, I couldn’t dump my stuff on that poor thing. No. I would work this s**t out.
It’s time for the truth to be the truth that needs to be faced. No more hot mama days. There it is.
The parts are starting to fall off, and plastic replacement is not a possibility in our household. Time for age appropriate hairdos, professional hair coloring– no boot black done at home die jobs, time for shirts that cover the belly, and belts that prevent droopy diaper butt.
Time to remember that when you let your hair down after it’s been up in a rubber band all day, that you look more like Crazy Mary that roams the streets downtown mopping the bridge, then you look like a flower child.
I have often told my husband that you can tell what the year was when a person was plucked out of the dating game, by the bust-a-move they pull on the dance floor. Frozen movements in time, they will forever be doing the very last bump and grind they were popping and locking it to, before they were picked up, and plunked down into their new life as a parent.
Me? I’m still doing Madonna’s “Holiday” skip~skip~shoulder lift~shoulder lift.
I let my son suggest what to wear, and replaced the cowboy boots with the Danskos he likes better (in my mind, I’ll always be Thelma and Louise).
We get to the mall, and head toward the stores he likes best: H&M, American Eagle, Aeropostale. We pull the double doors open, enter, and begin to walk the long corridor.
All heads turn.
They are on him.
Yes, DDG*, your turn, baby. Your turn.
*Lady Di would call Prince William DDG, short for Drop Dead Gorgeous. I have always loved that.