11.6.04 You say blog, I say blurb
I told my daughter that it was my turn to have the computer. I promised my editor that I'd do my first website blurb over the weekend. Schuyler rolled her eyes, annoyed that I didn't know that the word was supposed to be blog. Jeez-us mom. GAAAAAA!
For any of you choosing to have kids later in life, let me want to warn you about a downside to that decision that no one talks about. No, it's not that when your child is twenty, you'll be shopping for cemetery plots. That I could handle. The problem is, when your kid enters teenage-hood, you will be deemed a complete and utter, out-of-it, moth-eaten, obsolete, mother who belongs in a Florida retirement community. A Cro-Magnon mom. A humiliation to children everywhere.
Maybe this happens to women who have kids early in life, but I have to believe it's worse if you wait until your blood levels are so high that even the most optimistic fertility specialist won't take you.
Last week, Schuyler went to a one of the hundreds of bar or bat mitzvahs she's been attending of late. When she didn't come home at the appointed hour, I called to say I was coming to pick her up myself. She immediately grabbed a cab and came home. It was both a sad and happy realization. Happy, because I'm always looking for effective ways to get my kids to obey my reasonable orders. Sad because, well, you can understand. Want to sleep too late to catch the school bus? It's okay. I'LL take you myself. Want to wear that cropped tee to school today? No prob. When the dean calls, I'LL bring a more appropriate shirt to your History class. Whatever works, right? But still.
What my daughter doesn't understand is just how cool a mom she has. I own an ipod. I drink green tea. I fix the computer. I order pizza for her friends. But alas, that's not enough. I say blurb instead of blog. I make her turn her music down and yell at her for locking the bedroom door when boys are visiting. I force her to change skirts that are too short and tops that are too tight. I mince no words when she's wearing too much makeup. I refuse to let her get a tattoo, pierce her bellybutton or dye her hair pink. Okay, so I've turned into my mother. I happen to believe my mother is incredibly cool. Now. Thirty years later. I really do believe that.
My son says it's against the law for any kid to admit he thinks his mom is with-it.
"Sam," I said. "In fifteen-years you'll realize just how cool a mom you have."
"That may be true, Mom," Sam said, "but you'll be long dead by then."
Saturday, November 06, 2004