Little Lolita

by Patti

Those who know me know I am a little on the liberal side. I tend to be free with expression and thought and am pretty accepting of other people's choices. I'm also a little...opinionated. I will argue with a rude cab driver, tell somebody to bleep off, and stand up for the underdog over and over. Mostly? I just want to be free to be me. After all - this is the girl who wore black garbage bags to school with a studded belt around my waist, and even now, any perception that I am being held back from wearing a black garbage bag to school if I wanna does not sit well with me.

I want my daughter to grow up with the same sense of independent thought and freedom of choice. I want her to be able to fend for herself, fight for what's right, and not be afraid to stand out. And, if she happens to fall in love with someone like her papi - a strong, also opinionated, somewhat conservative ball of fire, I want her to be able to able to love him back while still holding her own and staying true to who she is.

And it all begins with shoes.

I bought S a pair of wedge booties for the fall.  In my eyes, they were totally adorable, totally harmless, totally fashionable. See?

But in M's eyes? They looked like this:

And because he felt he was sending his daughter off to work the streets instead of into the halls of middle school, he refused to let her wear them. We actually had an argument about ANKLE BOOTS.
"She is too young to wear high heels!"
"They are NOT high heels - they are wedges. They look like HIKING boots, for crying out loud; how is that high heels?"
"She wore them with these pink pants that looked like stripper pants!"
"Stripper pants? My daughter does NOT own stripper pants - what are you talking about?"

(Apparently, Children's Place is now in the business of selling hooker wear? Did you know this? I did not know this.)

We discussed her gray ankle boots for nearly an hour. I tried to pinpoint what was causing my anxiety over his disdain for the harmless shoes, and I realized that I was kind of projecting my own fear of being stifled into the matter - and he was projecting his own fear of his daughter growing up. We were both projecting our neuroses onto S, and all the poor kid wanted to do was wear her I STILL SAY TOTALLY HARMLESS boots in peace.

A couple of days after our conversation, I spotted the boots on the shoe rack by our door and picked them up, marveling at how even MORE conservative they appeared to me under the shadow of "slut wear!" that had so unfairly been cast upon them. M was watching TV and I held one of the shoes up to his face. "Really? REALLY? THIS is what you were freaking out about?"

In the end, she will wear her boots, but she will wear them with non-stripper pants to appease her father. And to satisfy me, she will wear them with a confident smile on her face that says, "I won this battle; I will one day win the war."

The Pointe of Dreams

by Patti

This past weekend marked a monumental milestone in S's 11-year old life. Since she was four years old, S has dreamed of this milestone, and it has finally come to fruition: She's en pointe.

She has studied countless YouTube videos in preparation for this day, and the bunions, the blood, the twisted toes - none of that scares her away.

The day she got fitted for her pointe shoes, the parents, bystanders in our kids' dreams, hovered, snapping pictures, inhaling the glee that seemed to permeate the air. There were pointe shoes spread out all over the floor, as the fitters grasped the delicate, still unmarred feet of our daughters, trying to find the perfect fit. They were Cinderella ballerinas. 

Glass slippers

S's fitter called her over the barre, and S walked over, at first clumsy, the pointe shoes a new, strange feeling on her feet. The fitter worked her hand around S's foot, eyeing for any "twist" or "scrunch" in the fabric as S looked down at her feet, unbelieving of her luck.

Then the fitter asked her to plie so that she could see how the shoes moved with her. S grasped the barre and dipped low, her legs strong and determined. 

At last, the fitter uttered the magic words. "Please go up en pointe." S held her breath, knowing she was about to go up for the very first time, feeling the air change around her. Then she did it - she grew a foot in an instant -  she was en pointe.

S smiled hard into the mirror, failing at her attempt to remain cool and casual. The fitter clapped her hands together in celebration, and then got back to work, analyzing S's feet, their position, the fit of the shoes.
The first pair was deemed unsuitable, and S was sent back to the purple velvet couch to try on another pair.

If at first you don't succeed....

 S tried on a good dozen pairs of shoes that afternoon, and every walk to the mirror and subsequent lift up on to her toes grew stronger and stronger. By the time she and her fitter found the pair that sang on her feet, she could have pirhouetted out of the store en pointe, out onto the street, and all the way home.

But first: I had to pay.

When the cashier chirped out the total to me, my stomach lurched. Really? For pointe shoes? And then, as I looked over at S proudly clutching the little purple bag that held her wishes, I realized: I wasn't paying for shoes; I was paying for a dream. And then, as I handed over my debit card, it seemed I was getting quite a deal.

The moment we got home, S put on her new pointe shoes. They were satin-y, pink champagne on her feet as she flitted on her toes across the kitchen floor. "Look, mom!" I was actually impressed at how easily she seemed to lift herself  up so high.
"Does it hurt?" I asked.
"Not at all!" she answered, her arms delicately fluttering as she looked down at her vertical feet. "It feels cool!"

Remember when we dreamed? When it all seemed possible; when it was all new and fresh and we got butterflies at the thought of what was yet to come? I see that in her eyes now. Dreams keep a heart beating.


Love. Dream. Hope.



Nail Salon Newbies

by Cathy

When you were a child, did your mother ever take you to the nail salon? Heck, did your mother herself ever even go to the nail salon? For me, that's a no and a no.

In fact, the first time I ever got a professional manicure or pedicure, I was in my late twenties.  Getting a mani/pedi just wasn't as IN back then as it now. Besides, we were DIYers; my mom was a certified beautician so she cut our hair, highlighted it, colored her own and polished our nails (as well as her own). We always looked like a million bucks without spending the million bucks.

So when my daughter asked for a nail salon party for her 11th birthday, I thought 'Why not? This could be fun.' There were seven girls in total, each of who got the choice of getting either a mani or a pedi. Bella could get both since she was the birthday girl. And Ari? My five-year old? She asked for a pedicure.

I stepped back and observed while they selected their service and color. They each took on a different, more mature persona as they decided: Mani or pedi? Which color? Nail art? Should I mix TWO colors? Should I alternate colors?

Ari, for example, hemmed and hawed over her decision for quite some time; this was very unlike her usually decisive self. She was awestruck at the color options as she looked up at the massive wall shelving unit that was brimming with every shade of every color in the rainbow and then some. "Mommy, pick me up so I can see the ones on top!" she squealed every so often. I patiently lifted and suggested and oohed and ahhed, but she would have none of it. She knew what she was looking for, and after a good twenty minutes and multiple choice changes later, she settled on a reddish-pink color.

Bella came off as a complete pro. Unlike her usual indecisive self, she promptly chose her turquoise color, was shown to her seat immediately and proceeded to set the massage chair to the setting of her choice. She picked up a tabloid magazine next to her, settled in and was thoroughly enjoying her spa time. It's as if she's done this millions of times before. She didn't really have any interest in observing the steps, the process or how anything was done. She was just intent on relaxing.

Ari, on the other hand, had to sit waaaaaay up close to the edge of the large leather recliner, and was intent on watching every. single. thing. the lady was doing and how she did it. She was in awe. Her tiny feet were inserted into the humongous plastic flip flops as the woman laughed lovingly at Ari's smallness and topped off her pedicure with some daisies on her big toes. Ari was squealing with delight.

Part of the thrill of watching your kids grow up is taking in how they experience new things. It was such a joy for me to experience such a womanly rite of passage with them for the first time at the ages they are now. And although we are big advocates of DIY, we will definitely plan some mother-daughter days at the nail salon at least once a year going forward. It's now officially, the IN thing to do.

Gone to Heaven in a Handbag

by Patti

S has been working her way through the money and gift cards she received for her birthday last month. She is 11 now - that magical age where not only do your eyeballs practically fall out of their sockets from rolling them so fiercely at the sheer audacity of those others around you to even exist, but also the age where you prefer cha-ching! over Polly Pockets as a gift.

So yesterday, as part of the pretty wonderful Mother's Day that I had, I hit Target with S and my mom. My mom and I needed boring things like toilet paper and snacks for the week, but S had a plan: SPEND THOSE GIFTCARDS.  I'll admit: S is a lucky kid. She's got everything a kid could ever need, plus a lot of things a kid could ever hope for. I know this because whenever she's got a gift card or cash to blow, she kind of stands there and suffers. "I don't know what to BUY!" Oh, the world problems. But this time around, she had her heart set on a purse. Not a sparkly, kid-ish one, either; a real, live, cool, grown-up purse.

I remember when I got my first real, live purse. My aunt bought it for me when I was 12. It was the "in" purse of the moment -- a "Jet" bag with zillions of zippers, parachute-like material, and a rough, canvas strap. I loved that purse more than I loved Shaun Cassidy. I still recall the feeling of hearing the zipper unzip, and how I constantly found an excuse to rummage through the crap I wrangled up to throw in there in order to make that purse feel "official". This is how I knew how excited S was to have that same experience.

When we walked into Target, we immediately happened upon the purse area. S browsed through the aisles, lovingly stroking the diffirent types of leather, pleather, fabric and various faux materials that made up the many types of bags. She finally found one that made her squeal, and slung it over her shoulder. It was a slouchy brown pleather number with panels of Native American Indian designs on each side of the bag. "I LOVE this! It looks really hippy-ish!" She strode up and down the aisle, the bag swallowing her up whole. "I just wish it was a different color." She wore it as she browsed the other available purses, hoping to find one that made her squeal again. My mom and I took turns fruitlessly holding up alternatives, but she just rolled her eyes at them. Clearly, we had no taste. I finally found one buried among the "ugly" options that caught my eye. It was fabric and had funky designs all over it. It looked very "S". Slouchy? Check. Hippy-ish? Check. Long strap? Check.  "How about this one?" S let out an "ooooh" of approval, and I handed it to her. She was now more confused than ever.
"I love them BOTH!"
"Ah, but you can only get one."
"What do I do?"
My mom suggested that she walk up and down the aisle past the mirror, and glance at herself as she strode by so that she could see how each purse looked in action. So she did. Many, many times. And she still couldn't decide

Fully aware that we actually had real things to buy, I suggested that she walk around the store with both purses on, and get a feel for them in the real world. We pushed the cart around, my mom buying her things, me buying mine, all while S struggled out loud about her looming decision. In the soup aisle, I saw a woman with a funky sense of style -- the kind I knew S would respect -- so I approached her. "My daughter is buying her first real purse today, and she is having trouble deciding between two. May I ask your opinion?" The woman analyzed S, a gleam in her eye, and then quickly pointed at the one I had chosen.
"Love that one! I mean, they're both cute, but that one is just more... playful." S immediately nodded, relieved to be done with the choice.
"Thank you!" S smiled widely at the woman as she removed the brown purse from her shoulder.
"You're welcome. And... congratulations!" The woman smiled back at her, then looked at me and winked as she continued down the aisle, her job done.
S tore the tag off of the chosen purse and handed it to me, then placed her gift card in the bag, christening it with new weight. She then proceeded to float the rest of her way through Target, the purse grazing her thigh.

Last night, as I gave her her nightly good-night kiss, she asked me to sit with her for two minutes so that she could tell me what she had put in her purse. "....chapstick, my glasses case, lip gloss, my phone, a notebook with a pen - cuz you know how you're always telling me stuff I forget - my wallet, some suckers and some gum....I just wish I could sleep with my purse!" I congratulated her again on her new score, and tucked her in.  She rolled over and closed her eyes, the smile on her face carrying her into her dreams.

Sleepovers & Secrets

by Cathy

This past weekend, Bella had her 11th birthday party. She was particularly ecstatic because a) we got her a cell phone for her birthday a few days before the party, b) this was the first sleepover party she's hosted at our house and c) well, because she's a kid and it's her birthday party!

So for three days and three nights, we cleaned, vacuumed, prepped the sleepover room/bedroom, shopped and put together goody boxes, climbed ladders to twist purple and green streamers from all corners of her bedroom, hung a puffy, pink pom-pom looking thing from the ceiling fan in our living room, went to Costco and bought pizzas, chips, salsa, snacks, ice cream, chocolate milk, fruit, pancake mix, water, juice boxes and a bajillion other things that apparently we need to have on hand for a birthday sleepover party, organized and decluttered little areas in our house that needed to look more presentable, made sure I had Ferris Bueller's Day Off mailed to our house by Netflix in time, entertained, shuffled, chaperoned and chauffeured seven girls from our home, to the movie theater, to the nail salon and back.

Surprisingly, it all went very smooth, despite the 'You guys are crazy' undertones heard in the voices of the parents dropping off their kids, as they said things like, "Have fuuuuun..."  and "Good luuuuuck.." Luckily, everything turned out much better than we all anticipated. The demeanor, camaraderie and well-behaved manners of the girls were pleasantly surprising. They are, after all, blooming into young ladies and it's amazing to see how their maturity level is growing into that role as well.

After all of the shuffling and home activities were completed, the girls were off to the bedroom to claim their stake on the floor and lay out their sleeping bags, blankets, pillows and sweetly enough, even their favorite stuffed animals and pillow pets.

The plan was to get Ari, my five-year old, to sleep with me and Joe in our bed and offer up her bed to one of the girls. But there were two problems here: 1) no one wanted to sleep in the bed ("I never get to sleep on the floor!!" and "It's so much more fun on the floor!") and 2) Ari refused to leave her bed, even though she was beyond exhausted since having awakened at 7am that morning and would never get close to even shutting her eyes in a room brimming over with prepubescent, hormone-charged, high-pitched squealy girls. She desperately still wanted to be a part of what the Big Girls were doing. Thankfully, one of the girls came to her senses and requested the bed after all, which required plenty of coaxing and bribery on my part to get Ari to come into our bedroom.

I scooped her up with her pillow and Mo, her stuffed lamb, and carried her into our room, promising her a cuddly, snuggly time with mommy and papi. Joe greeted her with a sweet, "Hi mommy! You come here and sleep with us tonight, okay?" I tucked her little body in while she clutched PillowMo, slipped under the covers and cozied up right next to her. As I watched Ari doze off next to me, I thought about how Bella was in her room gossiping, sharing secrets, talking about boys, texting other girls in the room on her new phone, and how she was already growing up and away from us. I missed her already.

Exhausted, I started to doze off myself, when I was awakened by a quick kiss and a loudly whispered, "Good night mommy!"
I startled awake and found Bella's face right over mine. I hugged and kissed her goodnight. After about what seemed like another hour and the voices trailing from the girls' room were starting to lose power, I heard the quick, tip-toed shuffling of feet and waited for Bella to turn the corner into our room again. I smiled to myself as she came in.
 "I just want to give you another kiss and a hug before I go to sleep," she said tiredly. I wondered if she had snuck out of the room to do this and I smiled to myself again. I squeezed her tight and gave her another goodnight kiss.
"Thanks for everything mommy. Love you!" she said softly as she ran back to her room.

I fell back asleep, smiling contentedly. No matter how old she is, she will always be my 'lil girl, and that will always be our little secret.

Happy 11th birthday, my 'lil girl!!

Slipping Through My Fingers

by Cathy

Laying in bed the other night trying to fall asleep, my mind rattled off tasks and errands for the next day, skipping haphazardly over the stepping stones of my random thoughts and rather suddenly, into some deep water in the form of a panic attack.

I was thinking about what I have to do to prepare for Bella's upcoming 11th birthday party, then quickly freaked out because she's past the 10-year mark, then quickly comforted that thought with the fact that Ari is still only five. But wait! That means she 's going to be SIX? In three months? No, no no! That's not so little anymore! She will no longer be wearing toddler sizes but size 6X! With one tiny step, she'll be leaving Toddlerland and quickly heading into Teenagerville, where she'll meet up with Bella and conspire to move out within the year. I could see it all now...

So I lay in my bed crying waterfall tears and muffling heavy wails because these thoughts were tailspinning me into a lonely place. Joe was snoring away next to me, blissfully unaware that his girls are all grown up already. I desperately wanted to run into their bedroom and sprinkle desperate kisses all over their foreheads, eyebrows, eyelids, nose, cheeks, lips, chin, ears and hair and then slide under their covers, hold them tight, so they wouldn't dare grow another inch, and watch them sleep. Instead, I chose to not scare the crap out of them and took three deep breaths, calmed myself down and promised to take in every minute of every age - which is something I remind myself of on a daily basis.

..........

Ari has been obsessed with movies ever since she could sit still long enough to see one through. And when she finds a movie she loves, she loves it over and over again until we are all inevitably reciting the words to the whole movie by heart. Her first major obsession (at age three) was Bee Movie. Then it was Madagascar. Then Enchanted. Then Ice Age. Then Despicable Me.  Lately - and by this I mean, the past year - she has been infatuated with Mamma Mia!


That movie has taken up precious space on our DVR for the last year. Just the other day, Joe told me, "Dude, if I hear those Mamma Mia! songs one more time I'm gonna go nuts. What is it about that movie and Ari? Let's just erase it."

"No way!" I defensively responded, protecting my young. "Ari would KILL us if we erased it! Just leave it on. She loves it."

And sure enough, later that same night, she asked me to play it off the DVR for her. See??? Mamma knows best.

There's a wedding prep scene in the movie where the mother of the girl getting married sings "Slipping Through My Fingers" while polishing her daughters' toenails, styling her hair, helping her with her jewelry and all the other motherly moments that should be shared before she lets go of her baby so she can go off and become that special person in someone else's life.

When the first few notes of that song reverberate off our television screen, they travel through the house, grab me by the heart and pull me towards it. By now, Ari waits for me to walk into the living room where she is sitting - usually alone, because we have all seen the movie 3,258 times - and take her into my lap to squeeze her close.

"This song makes you cry, doesn't it mom," she always says. So we sing and hum and rock back and forth together and sure enough when it's over, she turns to search my face. "Let me see your tears," she says in a quasi-cocky tone. And when I don't disappoint her, she bows her head into mine and sits with me.

And then you wonder why I don't want them to grow up? Because I won't get moments like these very often. Because the innocence and sincerity won't be heard in their words anymore. Because they won't hold my hand throughout an entire field trip in a museum in front of all their friends (and boys!) anymore. Because they won't insist on sitting with you, and only you, on the bus ride home from that field trip. Because they won't request to sit on your lap while you're visiting their classroom anymore, either.

So as long as I can get these moments, I will take them, because their wedding day will be here any day now.

.............

Slipping Through My Fingers

by ABBA

Schoolbag in hand
She leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye
With an absent-minded smile
I watch her go
With a surge of that well-known sadness
And I have to sit down for a while
The feeling that I'm loosing her forever
And without really entering her world
I'm glad whenever I can share her laughter
That funny little girl

Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time

Sleep in our eyes
Her and me at the breakfast table
Barely awake
I let precious time go by
Then when she's gone
There's that odd melancholy feeling
And a sense of guilt
I can't deny
What happened to the wonderful adventures
The places I had planned for us to go
Well some of that we did
But most we didn't
And why I just don't know

Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time

Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
And save it from the funny tricks of time
Slipping through my fingers -

Schoolbag in hand
She leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile... 

Crush

by Patti

I had my first crush in fifth grade. His name was Gary, and he had red hair and freckles and made everybody laugh. I remember that feeling so clearly - that tingly, nervous, new feeling that made me excited to go to school every day; that feeling that made me love rust and mustard striped shirts; that feeling that made me stare at the back of a kid's wavy-haired head like it was a work of art. That feeling.

Now, as if fifth grade is the "benchmark", S has that feeling. According to her, he has dark hair, he's funny, they both like the same shows on television, he laughs at her jokes. The other day, I was in the kitchen when S frantically called me from the living room. I ran in to find her standing at our large picture window - the one that looks out onto the park across the street - with binoculars in her hands, her eyes planted into them. "He's there! He's playing basketball! LOOK!" She shoved the binoculars into my hands, guiding them up to my eyes lest I miss this Golden Opportunity. I peered into the binoculars, feeling slightly stalkerish. "He's wearing red shorts, mom!" I immediately saw him - the dark-haired boy in red shorts, his arm blocking his opponents as his other arm maneuvered the ball. I knew it was him, not by his shorts, but by the way he moved. He had a confidence, a command. I knew just why she might like him. I smiled into the binoculars, then took them off my eyes and handed them back to her.
"He's cute!"
"I KNOW, MOM!"

A little later, we were sitting around the dinner table celebrating my in-laws' last night with us, when S excused herself from the table and came back a minute later with the makeup box she uses for her recitals. As we sipped our wine and had "grown-up" talk, S bent into my old M.A.C. compact and rubbed some blush into her cheeks. Then she smoothed some shimmery shadow onto her eyelids, dabbed her lips with gloss, and finally, whipped out the mascara and stroked her ridiculously long lashes into illegal lengths. For the grand finale, she brushed her long, golden curls out and smoothed them down, and when I looked at her, all shimmery and sparkly and glossy, I was afraid at just how lovely she looked.
"Mom? Can I go to the park?" It was obvious just why my daughter, in the middle of dinner, now all made-up, suddenly "needed" to go the park. I looked across the table at M, his eyes boring his disapproval into me.
"Honey, we're eating."
"But mom, IT'S IMPORTANT!"
I bent over and whispered into her ear. "I'm sure he's gone by now, honey."

She spent the rest of dinner getting up to go the window under the ruse of having to "use the bathroom", or "get something from her room", or needing to "stretch." But I knew what was driving her, and I thought of Gary, his baby face sprinkled with freckles, his red waves falling onto his forehead, and I understood.

I also thought of M, the first real love of S's life, and I knew that this new development had to scare the crap out of him. After all, when S was little, all she wanted to do was marry her papi. And now? He has to start letting go, little by little. Because one day, he will no longer be that man in her life. One day, it won't be just a crush; it'll be something important and serious - something that will, indeed, steal away his little girl.  I see that future loss in his eyes, and I understand.

I looked at S and noticed the lip gloss sneaking its way outside the lines of her mouth - and I still saw that little girl; the one who, despite the boy in red shorts outside the window, for now, is right here with us.