Confessions of a totally cool mom

(condensed)

I used to wear the right clothes. Cuffed my jeans just so. Sported spiky hair. I was a totally cool mom. My daughter adored me.

Now all that's changed. Not my clothes or hair. What’s different is my daughter is a teenager.

I first noticed my loss of status the day we went back-to-school shopping at the mall. Alison walked two store-lengths in front of me, muttering, "How could she? How could she?" It seems I had made the mistake of announcing to "everyone in the entire state" that she needed new underwear. Actually, all I did was shout across the store, “I’ll meet you in lingerie." I was in housewares and she was looking at shoes.

I didn't know it would be such a big deal. But let me warn you, to a teenage girl, underwear is a big deal. A major big deal.

Nobody told me. Just like nobody told me that moms aren't supposed to meet their daughters at the school-bus stop. Excited to hear about her first day of high school, I waited with Alison's little sister, Laura. That was my first mistake. Waving as the bus came around the corner was my second. My biggest blunder, though, was calling out, "Hi (nickname)'' I'd tell you what it is except I promised never, ever,to repeat it in public.

Imagine my surprise when Alison got off the bus, turned and walked away from me, muttering, “How could she? How could she?” I had to chase her all the way home.

“How would you like it ifyou were my age and Grandma met you at the bus stop?” she cried once I caught up with her.

I shuddered. My mom? At the bus stop? I'd die. “But I’m different,” I told her. I’m cool.” She looked at me and rolled her eyes. That’s when the light bulb went on. I’m not different — and I’m not cool anymore.

The list of my transgressions is long. I told the mother of the boy she likes (in front of Alison) I thought her son was handsome. Not only that, I invited them to watch home videos of our trip to Disney World.

I had her paged at К Mart.

I drove up to the drive-through window at Burger King in my bathrobe. It was dark and nobody saw me and Alison stayed home, but she still accused me of humiliating her.

Recently I polled a group of high-school girls at the mall whom I offered French fries and soda if they’d tell me how to be cool again. Here’s what they said:

Rule 1: Be nice to your daughter’s friends, but don’t ask them questions. Never sing in their presence. And don’t dance.

Rule 2: Never mention personal items in public. Go ahead and buy her underwear and deodorant, but never say who it's for. Play it safe-shop at least 50 miles from home.

Rule 3: Never use current slang. Even if something is absolutely to die for, don't say so. Never say “far out” or “with it”. Never, ever, say “groovy.”

Rule 4: Keep the closet stocked with clothes your daughter can wear, but don't wear them yourself. You'll look as if you're trying to dress like her.

Rule 5: When asked for your totally honest opinion about her hair, weight, clothes, nose size or pimples, don't say, “I'm your mother — I love you just the way you are.” That’s the Mister Rogers reply.

Rule 6: Don’t sport a “Honk if you love easy listening” bumper sticker. Don’t honk at anyone else's bumper sticker. Don’t honk, period. Don’t wave at anyone. Don’t drive past anyone who might know your daughter. Be invisible.

There’s no guarantee you’ll regain coolness by following these rules. Chances are, no matter what you do, you’ll always be uncool. But if there’s any justice in the world, one day your daughter will have daughters of her own — and discover she isn’t so cool either.

(by Nancy Kennedy, http://www.rd.com)

Text 19

PAYBACK FOR A PUNK

(condensed)

It was a day filled with the little vexations of life. In the morning I got a speeding ticket after having had a root canal. At work my computer fouled me up by going down. Finally, as I left the office eager to get home because I was giving a dinner party, the needle on my car’s fuel indicator shook convulsively in its demand for gas. I whipped off the freeway and headed for the nearest gas station, only to find all eight pumps taken.

“Damn,” I exclaimed as I impatiently waited for my turn. Soon I used another expletive when a cheeky woman in a Volvo tried to nudge ahead of me. Eventually I got to a pump and filled the tank. Then I darted inside the convenience store to pay – only to wait in line again.

As I stood swearing under my breath about another delay, I was only vaguely aware of a young man in front of me. He had plunked a soda on the counter and reached into his pocket for money.

“Ninety-four cents, please,” said the middle-aged clerk.

“I’ll take this pack of cigarettes too,” the young man stated matter-of-factly.

“ID,” countered the clerk. The casual command caused me to focus on the person ahead of me. He was extremely slight, with delicate features and a face as smooth as a baby’s heel. He could have been 21 or 15 – it was impossible to tell.

Apparently the question about his age was more than the young man could stand. He burst forth with a string of verbal garbage, using a widespread four-letter word repeatedly to explain, emphatically, that he didn’t haul his identification around with him everywhere he went.

“Then it will be 94 cents for the soda. No ID, no cigarettes,” the clerk calmly remarked. With that rejection the angry young man spewed forth another stream of obscenities. Suddenly the clerk reached across the counter with both hands, grabbed the fellow by the collar and literally plucked him off the floor. With fire in his eyes and passion in his voice he growled, “That’s enough! You watch what you say in here, understand? There’s a lady present!” Then he shoved the cusser away with obvious contempt.

The foulmouthed offender was stunned. I was flabbergasted by the stern admonition on my behalf. No one had tried to protect me from offensive language before. The astonished young man paid for his drink and scurried away. I did likewise, still so startled by the clerk’s actions that I didn’t respond to his gallantry.

As I drove home, I realized the significance of the episode. Profanity is a problem that everyone agrees something should be done about, yet few of us actually do anything. On the contrary, most of us contribute to its continuation by our own swearing. I recalled with guilt all the less-than-delicate language that had rolled off my tongue through the years whenever I was mad, glad, trying to be dramatic or just had to wait in line – though never had I said anything as crass as I’d just heard.

And now, in an act of omission, I had failed to respond. Why hadn’t I told the culprit to knock it off when the first raunchy words foamed out of his mouth? At the very least, why hadn’t I thanked the clerk for taking a stand against offensive language in his store?

Recently I read a newspaper article stating that although Americans are concerned about unbridled profanity, the reality is that we are swearing more and hearing it less. It’s so familiar that it passes unnoticed. Unfortunately, there must be some truth to the story – as shown by my experience. What surprises me most is how much more astonished I was by the store clerk’s gallant stand against vulgarity than by the cussing of an angry young punk.

(by Sandra Flahive Maurer, http://www.rd.com)

Text 20