Just Like Mom
Lauren has been going through a phase lately where she wants to be just like me. I know, I know. Someone needs to do an intervention before the child goes down that horrible path. Though I have a suspicion that teenaged hormones will soon make her want to be just the opposite of me so there’s hope for her yet.
Though I’m flattered that Lauren sees something in me that she’d like to imitate, it’s not always easy to live up to her expectations. Especially when it comes to clothes and hair. She came into my bedroom a few days ago, intent on a mission to find us matching outfits. She rooted through my closet for the longest time until disappointment set in. No Hannah Montana t-shirts. No hot pink leggings. No spaghetti-strapped purple glitter tank tops.
“This is all Mom stuff,” she said with obvious disappointment. As if she was expecting to go into my closet and find some sort of magical door to another realm where her mom actually owned a t-shirt with Zac Efron’s mug on it.
She gave up on the closet search and went back into her own room where she changed into a plain red shirt and jean shorts like the kind of clothes I actually do own.
After I put on my matching (and boring - her words, not mine) outfit, she insisted we should have the same hair style. She chose pigtails. There’s no magical realm where pigtails look good on a middle-aged mom. I convinced her that barrettes were the way to go even though that meant I ended up with a rainbow clip stuck on the side of my head.
When we looked in the mirror, she looked like the cute eight year old she is. I looked like a woman about five minutes away from a mid-life crisis. That’s when something occurred to me. Maybe this wasn’t about Lauren wanting to be like me. Maybe she was wanting me to be more like her.
Now that wouldn’t be such a horrible thing after all. At least not until she turns thirteen and I show up at her school dance in a miniskirt and pigtails.
