Dress to Kill

School began two weeks ago, and I am already tired of fighting about clothes.

My 15 year old daughter, the older and least responsible of my two children, has been pushing my buttons over what to wear to school in the mornings. She refuses to pick out her clothing the night before, no matter how many times I ask her to or threaten to do it myself. Instead, she waits until the moment she should be getting in the car to decide on something questionable at best, making her late and causing an argument at the same time. We both start the day in a bad mood.

I wish I understood how this game is played.

Before school started, we did the whole back to school shopping thing. She has pretty high standards in attire, which I indulge due to a combination of Jewish guilt and a childhood of wearing hand me downs or just going without. There was no such thing as back to school shopping in my childhood experience, so I admit, I overcompensate for my girls. I prefer things be on sale, but I understand that some jeans cost a hundred bucks, and I rationalize buying two pairs if they last the whole school year.

Despite the trips to Anthropologie and Lucky Jeans, my daughter claims, falsely, to have nothing to wear. Honestly, when you look at a lot of her clothes, her Birkenstocks, her ripped jeans, her oversized beige cardigan sweater, she looks like a wealthy homeless person.

What she does have, in addition to her Big Lebowski chic, is an entire wardrobe of summer only clothing, things that don’t follow the rather specific school dress code. The code involves things like no spaghetti straps and no shorts more than three inches above the knee and no yoga pants or leggings and no jeans with tears or shreds or rips and absolutely no midriff showing ever because bare stomachs are like windows to your vagina.  I don’t know if you have gone shopping for teenage girl clothing lately, but the only things available are specifically what the school prohibits.

I would like to point out that the dress code issue is primarily one for girls. The boys don’t have to worry about spaghetti straps or yoga pants or short shorts. They might have an issue with inappropriate graphic t-shirts or wearing loose pants too low, but other than that, they don’t generally get sent home for being a distraction. Not that there’s a double standard or anything.

What would solve this problem, in theory, are uniforms. If we went in the khaki pants and polo shirt direction, we might have the issue of mine is nicer than yours, but we wouldn’t have the problem of how short is too short in a dress.

The other morning was particularly rough.  At 7:30, the exact moment my daughter is supposed to back out of the driveway, she stood upstairs at the balcony overlooking the family room and said, “Does this look good?”  She was wearing an old stained white cami top, an unbuttoned chambray shirt, and a pair of pants that she got from a friend who outgrew them. They are somewhere between a yoga pant, a sweat pant, and a pajama pant, none of which meet the dress code.  I refer to them as her clown pants.

“It looks okay, I guess,” I said.

“That’s exactly what Dad said,” she groaned.

“Well, I guess the consensus is it’s an okay outfit. Do you know what time it is?” I asked.

“I’m going to be late and I have nothing to wear and you don’t like this,” she complained. “I wear shirts like this all the time. It’s no big deal.”

“I don’t care about the shirt, it’s more the clown pants I don’t like’, I said.” But I am not the one wearing them.”

“I guess I have to change,” she yelled as she ran back to her bedroom.

Five minutes later, at 7:35, she stomped down the stairs. This time she was wearing a short black dress with the same chambray shirt open on top. The dress was not three inches above her knees; it was about two inches below her butt cheeks. “I’ll probably get sent home for this,” she said.

“Then why did you put it on?” I asked her.

“It’s really short. I know I’ll get in trouble for it.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. I am pretty sure she was waiting for me to say it was fine or not to worry, which I was not about to do.

“I’m late and this is all I have,” she said loudly, not quite a scream, but almost.

“Why did you take off the clown pants?” I said.

“You didn’t like them, but they fit dress code,” she snapped.

“Well, I didn’t tell you to change. But I am now. You can’t wear that to school, so you better go change again. Why don’t you wear one of those short sleeved shirts I bought you a couple of weeks ago?”

“I don’t want to wear one today,” she said.

I just stared at her. “Sure am glad I took you shopping for things you could pick out and then reject,” I muttered.

“I don’t have time for this!” She finally reached the yelling stage.

“Make time for it,” I said. “Now. Go change into something that isn’t going to get you in-school suspension. I am not about to bring you a change of clothing because you wore something you know you shouldn’t.”

She stomped back up the stairs and slammed the door. I continued to eat my breakfast.

Five minutes later, at 7:40, she came barreling down the stairs. She had on the original cami with the chambray shirt and a pair of jeans.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I asked.

“Thanks a lot for ruining my morning and making me late,” she pouted as she grabbed her lunch box but left her water bottle on the counter.

“My morning isn’t exactly off to a good start either. Don’t forget your water bottle!” I said.

“I don’t have time to stop for it,” she said.

“But you have time to have a fight about it!” This time I yelled at her.

She slammed the door and left, leaving me to wonder how fast and careless she would drive. Did I mention she was fifteen? Fifteen year olds aren’t known for their ability to compartmentalize their emotions and focus on being safe or cautious.

When she was a little girl, she and I would spend time together every night before her bath and bedtime picking out an outfit for the next school day. She would lay it out, finding matching socks, maybe a hair ribbon, so she was all ready to learn bright and early the next day and look sharp while doing it. Now she is a few years away from a college freshman who sniffs the armpits of a t-shirt to see if it is clean enough.  

I blame the school dress code.

Gimme a Break

We are only a couple of days away from winter break, and I don’t know who is happier about it, me or my daughters.

Even five years ago, I wouldn’t have felt that way. Having my two girls home from school added the responsibility of activity director to my already ridiculous list of jobs. Not only did I cook and clean for them, but I had to entertain them too, or at least help them entertain themselves. It was fucking exhausting, all the arranging of playdates and planning of outings and baking of sugar cookies, which to this day I won’t eat if decorated by a child. Are their hands ever really clean?

Now that my babies are teenagers, they don’t require that level of interaction, but when they do, it’s more on their own terms and generally in small doses. Plus, they like to sleep, a lot, and I can go to the gym and be fairly comfortable they won’t set the house on fire or beat each other to death with Barbies. They can make their own hot chocolate and grilled cheese sandwiches. They know how to turn on the Blu-Ray player, and they are tall enough to reach it. In short, I don’t mind having them around.

They really need this break from school, and I really need the break from them bitching about school. I am not one to bash teachers. Teachers do a thankless job with no supplies for no money, and a lot of people discount what they do as not being real work. I value them, I appreciate them, and I support them. Well, most of them. The few bad ones, and it seems there is always at least one a year, those are the ones from which we all need a break. They are making my kids crazy, and my kids are making me crazy, and for two weeks, we get to stop the insanity.

My older daughter’s arch nemesis is her biology teacher. This is a woman who thinks she is cool because she wears palazzo pants and kicky little heels and slutty librarian glasses. She likes to use technology, Edmodo and homework assignments by text, because she thinks it makes her innovative. What she doesn’t like to do is be fair or grade work. She thinks if she tells one of her classes a detail about an assignment that the other three classes will somehow magically know the information as well, and if they don’t, well, that’s their problem. She likes to say that a lot: that’s your problem. She’s right, too. When she assigns projects the night before but doesn’t give them a rubric, when she decides to cancel the science fair work after the kids have already written a preliminary experiment, when she gives them an entire chapter on genetics to outline the night before she quizzes them on it, having never once covered the material herself, having never taught fucking genetics to a whole honors class of teenagers who actually want to be taught, it is their problem. So yes, we would all like a winter break from that bullshit.

My other daughter was blessed this year with not one but two of “those” teachers. She would like a break from the science teacher who prefers to cover DNA sequencing with a SpongeBob handout and teaches the parts of a microscope with a worksheet instead of a, you know, an actual microscope. She would also like a break from the social studies teacher who makes all the girls put their purses in a bin at the front of the room, who stands at the door with her hand out for assignments before the students are allowed to enter, who won’t let a student stand near her desk if she smells perfume or the kid accidentally coughed. This social studies teacher, who has already had them write a paragraph long definition of over three hundred vocabulary works, who makes them outline in great detail the entire textbook, then takes away points when the kids mess up their roman numerals since none of them ever learned how to actually do a technically accurate outline, this one we could stand a break from. I’m happy that my kid learning how to outline; what I mind is that she was somehow supposed to know it without ever being taught. Don’t you think if you want middle school students to format the homework in a certain way, you might give them a little clue on how to do it?

Every night, my children engage in a bitch fest that rivals the most disgruntled workers, bitching about how unreasonable some of their teachers are. They have a minimum of two to three hours of homework every night, and weekly group projects that they always somehow get stuck doing on their own. They are overwhelmed, and I don’t blame them. The homework they have assigned ranges from busywork to independent learning, which might benefit them in some ways, but on the other hand, aren’t they supposed to be teaching?

I realize that learning to deal with difficult people is a life skill that every student, nay, every person, must try to master. We all have had a horrible boss at some point, and we had to find a way to do what they wanted without going postal. Kids seem to have it worse because they have the potential to have up to six bad bosses at a time, each with their own unreasonable demands and narcissistic tendencies that young adults really don’t know how to navigate.  

For two weeks, I won’t have to listen to anyone bitch about the horrible Ms. Crotch Rot Douchebag and the crazy ass ho Mrs. Fuckface. If we are truly #blessed, we might even make it through the vacation without a project or paper, no ancient Greek epic poems to buy (hello, this is public school; why am I buying books??) and memorize, no cells to diagram or current events to debate. Just hot cocoa, sleeping in, presents, and fighting with each other, something we just haven’t had enough time to do.

It’s going to be a fabulous fortnight.

Mom's Morning Out

If you have a teenager, when was the last time you spent a full day alone with it? I had that misfortune last week when my daughter had three doctor’s appointments, and let me tell you, I don’t plan on doing that again anytime soon. My daughter, E, is now thirteen, only she thinks she’s sixteen. While she still occasionally wants a hug or to have a conversation with me, she has decided that she knows everything and therefore doesn’t have to listen to her parents or teachers anymore.

Since there is nothing left to learn, she finds the world a pretty boring place, especially the part of the world in which she spends most of her time. Her family is boring, her school is boring, her friends are boring, there’s nothing to do, nowhere to go, blah blah blah. I can’t even understand half her complaints because she has taken to mumbling full time. If I don’t respond to what I can’t hear, then she adds sighing and eye rolling. Three year old tantrums are starting to be a reminder of the good old days, when I could at least pick up my child and cart them off to another room for a time out.

 We started the morning at the orthodontist’s office. E has been wearing orthodontia of some form since she was eight. She’s had four rounds of expanders and has been in braces for over two years now. You would think she’d be pretty eager to get them off, but sadly, no.

It all comes down to rubber bands. Every six weeks we go to the orthodontist, and he gives her a couple of packs of rubber bands which she is supposed to hook in various versions of cat’s cradle inside her mouth. She is to wear them at all times except during meals. She chooses not to.

Instead, she hides her bags of rubber bands in my car or in my purse.  Which means that the braces she should have had removed over a year ago are still hanging out on her teeth. I didn’t realize she could have been train track free for that long because she has forbidden me from joining her for her orthodontist exams, since I talk too much and therefore embarrass her. I wanted to ask her doctor specifically what she needed to do to get those braces off. He said, as politely as he could, that if she would just wear the rubber bands, she would be finished with the braces.

When we got in the car, I said to her, “You want your lecture now or later?”

She said, “I’ll take it now,” and proceeded to lecture me about why she still has her braces on, about how it’s not her fault and she forgets and they hurt and they shouldn’t make that much difference anyway and who cares if her teeth are straight.

“Wait a minute,” I said, “it doesn’t work like this. I am going to lecture you, not the other way around. You are the one who has to sit there and listen.”

I went off on what a waste of everyone’s time it was to continue to go to these appointments if she wasn’t going to do what she was supposed to do. I made her find every package of rubber bands and hold them in her hands to illustrate how many days she has been noncompliant with her treatment. I pointed out that she must really like braces since the only reason she still wears them is because of her. And I raised my voice some, because the more I talked, the better it felt to say everything louder.

 

 

That is a pile of rubber bands, not rubbers.

 

We went home. She stormed upstairs to her room, and I stayed downstairs and took out my frustration on Facebook.

Next it was time to go to the pediatrician. She refuses to see any doctor except the one she has gone to since she was a baby. He now practices on the other side of town, so I indulged her by driving twenty five minutes to get to his new office. She was measured and weighed and had her hearing checked, which, shockingly, was completely normal.  Then the doctor came in the exam room and attempted interaction. He has a thirteen year old daughter as well, so he knows a little about the breed.

He did the usual stuff and then reviewed her growth over the past year. She declared herself fatter than her friends, which is infuriating. She wears a size three jeans, and she is 5’7”. Plus, every afternoon when she gets home from school, she raids the pantry of all its chocolate. Seriously, even the chocolate chips I buy for cookies are half gone, the bag wide open, I might add, just like the pantry doors, which is how I can tell she had been looting. Anyway, she isn’t fat, which the doctor told her in a professional and tactful manner. She interrupted him several times to argue about why she thinks she’s a porker, including bringing up her 80 pound friend who is severely underweight as an example of normal. He ended every sentence with, “What do I know; I’m just a doctor.”

The same thing happened during their argument over the effectiveness of ibuprofen on menstrual cramps. The teen mumbled. The doctor patiently explained how ibuprofen works. Then the teen argued about it some more, with mumbles, until the pediatrician said a variation of his other line, “Well, if I were a doctor, I might know what I am talking about.” Clearly she feels comfortable with him, at least enough to treat him like an idiot, much like she does with her father and me.

Then we drove home again. On the way, she had to tell me when to switch lanes on the interstate, as if she knew what she was talking about. I ignored her and told her what options we had for lunch. Bagels, soup, macaroni and cheese, peanut butter, veggie burgers. She rejected everything and went for a giant bowl of Fruity Pebbles when we got home. Those don't make you fat at all.

After lunch, it was time to go to the dermatologist. I told her I would stay in the waiting room, but this time she insisted I go back with her. She seemed to have lost her will to fight, perhaps because she was sleepy, so she just mumbled at him but kept the arguing to a minimum. He asked her if she had any concerns, and she said no, so I reminded her she was worried about some new moles that had appeared on her youthful milky white skin. He examined them and told her they were looked normal. She glared at me for speaking.

After that appointment, I didn’t drive home. I drove to school.

“Where are we going now?” she mumbled at me.

“School,” I said. “The day’s not over yet.”

“Why can’t I just stay home? I’ve missed most of the day anyway,” she said to me.

“It’s not yet sixth period,” I answered. “If I drive faster, I can get you there in time.”

She mumbled at me and turned to face the passenger window to let me know she was mad at me, again.

The day was all about her, but she didn’t see it that way. She didn’t want to be at school, but she didn’t want to be home. She didn’t want to go to the doctors’ offices. She didn’t want to go back alone, but she didn’t want me there either. She didn’t want to hear what any of her doctors had to say, and she didn’t want to do what she was told to. She doesn’t know what she wants. She wants to be treated like an adult but wants to act like a kid.

No wonder she is tired all the time. That shit is exhausting.

No!

I have 144 popsicles in my freezer, and a dozen balloons in my guest room. This is what happens when I cannot learn how to say a simple two letter word.

I am in charge of the popsicle party at my daughters' school this afternoon, one of those meet and greet affairs, but without cheap white wine and a nut crusted cheese ball. I hosted a similar thing last year, only then the school was comfortable with ice cream, and referred to it as a social. But kids these days, burdened as they are by a slew of unusual allergies, which may or may not be linked to their vaccines, food preservatives, global warming, or inbreeding, might be allergic to ice cream ingredients. So we opted for popsicles, which have the added bonus of not requiring any special equipment to be enjoyed.

My children do not go to an ordinary school, they go to a Montessori school. So not only are we hyper vigilant about the ice cream allergy potential, but we can't offer regular old popsicles, of the orange, cherry, and grape variety. No, these popsicles have to be healthy. 100% juice. Or at the very least, heavy on the real fruit, light on the artificial flavors and high fructose corn syrup. I thought, no problem, when I was coerced into heading up this soiree, but that was before I went looking for the allegedly 100% juice popsicles.

I tried Costco with no luck, but that didn't stop me from buying a Benjamin's worth of stuff we don't need. The next day, I skulked my way over to Walmart. I don't shop there as it is against my elitism, but I was attempting to save the school and thus myself some money. But again, I left without popsicles. They carry plenty with extra preservatives, but none of the healthy variety. I finally broke down and spent top dollar on some Breyer's fruit pops at my local Publix, knowing that brand to be popular with the allergic crowd. And those pops, being of premium quality, come 12 to a package. Which meant I cleaned out the entire store supply of fruit pops.

"Wow, someone must like these popsicles," the cashier sweetly said to me as I checked out. Did I really look like the kind of person who would eat 144 popsicles? I know she was making conversation, but really. I had a similar episode when I worked at Publix in high school. A woman came through my line with about 18 boxes of Summer's Eve douches. I don't recall if they were the same type or a variety of fragrances, but I do remember asking her politely if she had a coupon. She didn't, and she was not pleased I drew attention to what was a very personal, if bulk, purchase. Lucky for her I didn't ask, "Wow, someone must like these douches!"

I picked up my dozen helium filled balloons, in festive colors, and one of those brightly colored plastic table cloths as well, so I am all ready. I am sure there will still be criticism of my efforts. Why didn't I find 100% fruit juice pops? Why aren't there more orange ones? Why balloons, they kill endangered birds and confuse the dolphins? Or as my youngest daughter, S, said, why not make all the pops myself?

And all because I can't say a word that even a two year old can master.