Commando in Chief

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the only difference between little kids and teenagers is two feet and ten years. The narcissism and horrible decision making skills are about the same, but the scale at which those traits are displayed is much larger with that added decade. Granted, the upside of the older ones is that they usually don’t crap in their pants. Also, they understand sarcasm, so they are not a total buzzkill, but you will still want to shake some sense into them from time to time.

Yesterday was one of those times. My oldest daughter, E, and I had hair appointments. I went for my usual extensive gray covering and small trim to freshen things up, while E needed to get the straw like split ends sheared off so her hair might once again look like hair. She wore a cute little white patterned sundress, spaghetti straps and a mid-thigh handkerchief hemline, and with her hair straight and shiny, she looked just beautiful.

After hours at the salon, we got home and went in the kitchen to grab a snack. She made a comment when I walked past her about not wearing any underwear, one I wish I could remember. I thought she was joking and lifted up the back of her dress. She wasn’t joking. Bare bottom. We both screamed.

” Stop it Mom. I’m naked under this!” she screamed.

“You went out in public like that? What were you thinking?” I yelled at her. “Oh my God, I sat in that chair after you. Other people are sitting in that chair right now!”

“I tucked my dress under me,” she said, “like this,” and showed me how a proper lady would smooth her skirt before sitting. Proper ladies also wear underwear, especially in public.

“Your dress isn’t long enough to do that.” I said.

“Yes, it is,” she said.

“Oh,yeah? Well, bend over and touch your toes. “

The toe touch is my mothering litmus test for all things too short. At some point, we are all going to drop our phones and have to bend over and pick it up. When that time comes, we might not remember to squat demurely. Also, in her current state, the demure squat wouldn’t do the trick any better than the toe touch.  Either way, someone is getting an eyeful.

When I was in junior high, which is what we called middle school in Florida, I knew a girl who was known for her mini-skirts and no panties combination. I am pretty sure that’s how she passed ninth grade. I never witnessed it myself, but the memory haunts me anyway.

My daughter turned her back to me and started to bend over. “Not like that!” I shouted. “Turn your back to the wall; I don’t want to see your lady parts!” She turned around and bent over again.

“Oh, ok,” she said, and stood up. “I see what you mean.”

“What were you thinking? Seriously, what is the thought process that gets you to making a decision like going out in a short dress without panties?”

“Be nice to me!” she said.

My husband poked his head in the kitchen. “She can say whatever she wants. You went out in public without panties. You have lost all grounds for complaining. You forfeited nice when you went out like that. ”

I love it when he has my back.

“So what were you thinking?” I asked again.

“This dress is thin. I didn’t want my panties to show.”

“But you were okay with your pubes showing? I don’t get it. I see your point though. If you don’t want your panties to show, then don’t wear any. Makes perfect sense.”

She rolled her eyes. Too bad she can’t get college credit for eye rolling. She would have a fucking Masters in eye rolling.

“Why couldn’t you just wear your light gray thong?” I asked.

Mind you, when I was fourteen, I didn’t have a light gray thong. I didn’t even have a thong. And I certainly wouldn’t have gone out without anything between my privates and the rest of the world. We had two options back then, briefs or bikinis. You wore whichever ones your mom bought you, or in my case, whichever ones your sisters didn’t destroy before handing them down to you. You didn’t think about panty lines. You just accepted that in certain outfits, your panties would show. It wasn’t embarrassing because everyone had panty lines. You weren’t all that special.

“Oh,” she said. “I forgot about those.”

“Or the peach colored ones. “

“But those would show,” she said.

“Not really, they are the same color as your ass. Your bare ass. Your bare naked in public ass,” I said.

“Just stop,” she said.

“She will stop when you put on panties,” my husband shouted from the other room.

My younger daughter, S, came bouncing down the stairs. “What’s going on? I heard yelling.”

I love that about my kids. They are so nosy. When I was a kid and I heard my mom yell, I would stay right where I was, out of the line of fire.  My kids are comfortable knowing that anger is not misplaced around these parts.

“None of your business,” E barked. Well, anger that isn’t misplaced by me.

“She isn’t wearing panties,” I told S. “She went out for her haircut without underwear. And she sat in the car and the shampoo chair and the hair cut chair all like that. Oh, and the waiting area couch. She has sat in many places.”

“Gross,” S said.

“Indeed,” I answered.

“Shut up,” E said.

“But what about your period?” S asked. S is on her period for the third time ever. It is her new frame of reference. It is the sun around which her whole world revolves.

“I’m not on my period. That’s you,” E snapped.

“But you still have discharge,” S said. Well, whispered. She whispered discharge, like one might whisper cancer or black.

“Don’t talk to me about my vagina!” E yelled at her.

…And scene.

E went upstairs to change her clothes, and maybe put on panties. She came back downstairs in a hoodie and sweatpants. Did I mention it was about 95 degrees outside?  Earlier, it was hot enough to skip panties, now she was covered up like the Taliban was coming over for dinner.  I just don’t understand.

What I do understand is why she screamed so loud when she sat on the hot leather seat of my car after our haircuts, and for that, I don't blame her.