Growing Pains

Every parent has spent a lifetime of nagging children to eat their vegetables, to brush teeth, to read, to do homework, to watch less TV and exercise more. Every parent has hoped their children would be more manageable than they were as kids. Every kid as presumed they were more knowledgible about the world than their parents could ever be, and every parent has fretted that the current age is so very different and more difficult than all the ages past, that the world is much more oppressive and dangerous than they remember. Time is the great equalizer of all perceptions. Once you get to the later age, you have the authority of past experience to recognize those without that perspective; will not recognize your authority.

So I get the pain and awkwardness of teenagerhood. No one ever says “Man, if only I were 12 again.”

Having two teens and one tween and one perspective tween, I am having bad flashbacks.

Yesterday was a free dress day at school and I remembered. One of the biggest arguments I ever had with my Mom and I LOVED my Mom, (she was a safe haven and a refuge in those ugly high school years), was over a bathrobe sash.

I thought it looked great tied around my head.

It had a long flowing tapered end and it was fuchsia pink and made of terry cloth. It could not, could not have been more stylin’. I had on a mini skirt, tights, a flash dance cut sweat shirt, leg warmers and to complete the screaming 80’s fame wantabe ensemble, the fuchsia terry cloth bathrobe sash head band. Mom said no. I protested. Mom still said no. Somehow, the words “It’s a bathrobe sash.” Refused to sink into my adolescent brain. She tried mightily to convince me but undaunted, I marched to school, headband a swaying, euphoric.

That today, there is no physical evidence that I ever wore the thing to school is proof, not that anyone needed any, that Mom loves me.

Some kid at school, I forget the name, said, “Hey Sherry? Why are you wearing a bathrobe sash on your head?” The sash was off instantly and I was cured.

My daughter came up to show me her outfit for school. She had been in a great funk about what to wear but now joyfully modeled blue sports shorts, a striped pink and white top, a purple jacket and light blue ughs. Her hair was in deep curls and she twirled around with a twinkle in her eyes that mirrored her mother’s of 28 years ago.

“How do I look?” she'd asked.

I struggled. I knew she loved this, I knew I hated it but I knew she loved this. “You look happy.” I replied.

Off she bounced, her heart light.

Hopefully, no one took any pictures.