On the Contrary

When my teenager, E, was a toddler, she used to like to play a game we called “dis or dis?” Basically, she would carry a random object in each hand, walk up to someone, and say, “You want dis or dis?” while holding out each hand. The player would indicate which object was preferred, and E would thrust out her other hand and shriek, “No, you want dis!” She could play it for hours, and no matter how many different choices you made, they were always the wrong ones.

Today is E’s fifteenth birthday, and she still plays a version of her favorite childhood game. This morning’s edition involved E’s desire to dress up for Cowboy/Farmer/Redneck day at school. I don’t which was the actual theme, because E changed it every time she asked for help in finding appropriate accessories.

Her high school is celebrating spirit week, and E has mixed feelings about the whole thing. She wants to participate, since there is incentive to do so, usually in the form of extra credit points. But it comes at a cost, the potential to embarrass oneself. The school has a special event every night, special lunch food at the cafeteria sponsored by a variety of local restaurants, and even cupcakes and cookies for sale, made by a bunch of Pinterest loving teachers.  Money is collected in many of the classes, all for some sort of charity donation that E has yet to tell us. Also, every day has a dress-up theme, and while a bunch of kids really get into it, E prefers a more understated approach.

So this is how the game went today:

E (over breakfast, this morning, a half hour before she has to leave for school): Mom, I need some cowboy clothes for school today.

Me (still cooking her special birthday breakfast of turkey bacon and pumpkin spice-vanilla French toast): Sure, I can dig something out for you in a minute.

After breakfast was ready, I went to the guest room closet, the black hole of all things without a permanent home. Mostly it stores things like extra blankets and pillows, old Halloween costumes, gift boxes, and even the few stuffed animals and yearbooks I saved from my childhood bedroom. It also contains a few things that belonged to my late grandfather, Pop-pop.

Pop-pop fancied himself a cowboy. He didn’t grow up on a farm, he didn’t own a ranch; he was just a Jew from Baltimore who worked in sales. At some point in his adult life, however, he decided even if he wasn’t from the Old West, he could still look like it. He began wearing only western wear, which he continued until he passed away. Cowboy boots, tooled leather belts, scarf ties, pearly snapped shirts, and always a stiff cowboy hat, felt in the winter, straw in the summer.  He kept a horse at his friend’s house in Chicago when he moved nearby, and he loved to ride, more than anything else, except maybe a tall Jack Daniels and a nice pair of knockers. When he died, he left behind that collection of hats and belts and boots, and my sisters and I each kept a couple for ourselves, either to wear, or just because they were his.

At 7:30 this morning, I was in that closet, digging through the boxes until I found some belts and two pairs of boots, both snakeskin, one cordovan, the other a flashy red and black. I brought the boots out to show E.

Me: Look what I found!

E: I can’t wear those.

Me: Why not? Pops had small feet.

E: I will just wear my new boots.

Me: But your new boots aren’t Western.

E: Well, they still look like riding boots. Close enough. Anyway, I have boots. I really just need a hat.

Me: Why didn’t you say so?

I walked back to the guest room and continued to dig through the closet until I found a slightly crushed square Stetson box. Inside was a lightly stained grey felt hat and a pale straw hat with a dent in it. Pop-pop would have been really pissed at the condition of his hats.

I took the hats into the kitchen where E was sopping up the rest of the maple syrup with the last bite of French toast.

Me: Winter or summer?

E: Um, those are big.

Me: Of course they’re big. They’re real cowboy hats, not those fake things they sell at Target.

E: I can’t wear hats to school.

Me: Then why did you send me in the other room to look for a hat if you can’t even wear it?

E: I hoped you had one with a string around it that I could just hang on my back.

Me: Cowboy hats don’t have strings on them.  I found some belts too. I can go get those for you.

I rushed back to the closet, grabbed the handful of scarf ties and belts I found, and brought them back to the kitchen.

Me: What about these?

E: I don’t wear belts. Don’t worry about it.

Me: I am not worried about it, but I literally just produced an entire Western outfit for you, at your request, and you don’t want any of it.

E: I guess I’m just not comfortable wearing a dead man’s clothes.

Me:  It’s not like he died in these actual clothes!

E: It creeps me out. But thanks for trying.

I put everything back in the guest room, on the floor, since I am pretty sure it will take hours for me to Jenga that closet back together. Then I went upstairs to my other daughter’s bedroom. In her closet, from an old camp costume, was a small straw cowboy hat with a neck string. I took it into E’s bedroom and handed it to her.

E: Thanks, Mom. It’s perfect.

Me: Next time you want something exact, like a cowboy hat with a neck string, do me a favor and tell me. It would save me a lot of time and frustration.

She has managed to take her favorite childhood game and turn it into a more complex and narcissistic teenaged version.  And she is the master.

Happy birthday to my first born, my sweet baby girl. I know she isn’t reading this yet, but one day she will, and hopefully she will see the humor and joy and love she brings me every day, in her own special way. She is worth all of it.