When I was 9 years old, my little sister was born. As I edged my way into young adulthood in the late ’90s, Kaydi transformed into what we now call a tween. Also known as the time when your family goes from publicly beloved to mortifying.
Our mom commuted to Seattle for work, so I pretty much became a chauffeur.
“Isn’t that the kid you have a crush on?” I shouted, laughing as Kaydi got out of the car at 7:30 a.m. for summer school math class, her eyes wide above her scowl, embarrassment her punishment for forcing me out of bed.
On our drives to school or to pick up or drop off her various friends, I’d turn the music up until the windows shook, obliterating her protests that I was embarrassing her. My favorite was the soundtrack from the Brad Pitt movie “Snatch.”
“Total weirdo music,” according to Kaydi.
Fast forward a few decades and my daughter Violet is entering Tweenland. We’ve swerved out of ruffly Care Bear dresses straight into crop tops, oversized jeans and Doc Martens. She’s 9 years old but she’s also me at 14.
I remember the day I swapped out my baggy t-shirts for barely-there crop tops and skintight bodysuits. My mom was reluctant, but my school had no dress code so we agreed I could wear short shirts or short shorts, not both.
Feeling slightly hypocritical, I remind Violet,
“Your dress code says no midriff,” as we move her t-shirt up and down the same 2 inches each morning.
Violet stomps to her room to apply tinted lip gloss and pale eyeshadow.
She’s irritated I won’t let her have eyeliner and mascara. I’m happy we’ve compromised on shimmer. Her dad, who was into Ninja Turtles and fishing at her age, thinks she’s too young for any of it.
“My principal has tattoos, Mom,” Violet says. “I doubt she cares about my belly button.”
“The dress code says no midriff.”
Round and round we go.
She tells me I can help with art at school, but I am not to sell popcorn at recess. Chaperoning a field trip is OK, but not the dance put on by the PTA. She lets me roller skate at her birthday party but not at Skate Night at the civic center.
One afternoon, Violet dies of embarrassment when I pick her up because we’re wearing the same Hello Kitty shirt.
“Mom! Zip up your sweatshirt right now!” When I bought the shirts, she liked that we matched. Once upon a time, she picked out matching dresses for us to wear when I volunteered at preschool. Times have changed.
Before crop tops, the battle was blue light glasses. From kindergarten through second grade, Violet wore them through all her waking hours, bickering with her dad about the necessity of giving her eyes a break, me interrupting as a compromise, “At least wipe off the fingerprints?”
One day last summer, Violet said, “I think I’m done wearing glasses.”
The following week at dinner, she looked at us with a smirk and said, “What was the deal with the glasses?” then busted up laughing at herself. “That was so weird.”
Now she doesn’t even want to look at photos of herself in glasses, which is tricky since she wore them every day for over two years. Pictures of her in ruffles are no good either. And don’t even mention the video of her at age 4 wearing a dress covered in rainbow hearts, singing a made-up song.
Sing like the wind, I don’t know what I’m doing or looking at
I just have to be strong, to find my unicorn
Sing like the wind, I have to do this
Then I can be their princess
“This could be a Disney hit,” I say to her at bedtime, playing the video for the third time while she buries her head in her pillow. “Imagine this as the next ‘Frozen’ song!"
“Too embarrasing!" she shrieks.
On the way to school, I play the video’s music through the car speakers and sing along.
“If you play that in the drop-off line, I’ll get revenge on you,” Violet threatens, but she’s giggling, just like Kaydi used to do on our way to summer school, just like Kaydi does now when I bring up the ’90s.
I tell Violet that if she messes with me, I’ll show up to volunteer in class wearing a crop top with her song set as my ringtone. She covers her face and groans the longest “No” ever, then adds, “It’s against the dress code, Mom.”
When the lined-up cars at school begin to move, I’m a split-second late. We’re laughing so hard I forget to pay attention.
I may be embarrassing her, but Violet’s laughing. And it turns out she’s listening too.
Krisa Bruemmer is an award-winning writer. She lives in Vaughn.
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