My husband and I had lots of experience with teens before we actually had kids. I know. And we had them anyway. We are
insane saints. And we swore that we will not sweat the small stuff as our kids began to assert their individuality. We were determined not to get caught up in power struggles over clothing (as long as it’s appropriate) and hairstyles.
We’ve done pretty well, I think. For an entire year, we endured being in public with a child who insisted on wearing all clothing backwards. We figured if the kid was willing to put the clothing on without assistance, it didn’t matter what direction they faced. And it made things interesting. People were never sure if he was coming or going. We went through a ruby-slipper phase that lasted through three sizes, but who doesn’t like sparklies, right? Even if they clash with her Easter dress. We braved the purple-jean-red-shirt-green-shoes phase. And aslong as rips in jeans don’t offer a lesson in human anatomy, it’s all good. Our kids just don’t realize how lucky they are.
We’ve hit a couple of snags along the way because we’re not perfect. We vetoed a “padawan braid.” (Sorry, son. That’s a rat-tail, and it was never cool. Ask your uncle).
And we nixed (not nits, NIX!) the professional color-job (you come up with the $120 to have it done, and we’ll talk). But we’ve done pretty well.
And now we’re at the next round, and I am not sure how this one will end. It’s killing me. I know that when we go out in public, we’re going to get some strange looks, and probably draw critical comments from people we don’t even know. When you see my kid, you may judge me.
And now you have seen. Do you still love me?