Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Uncool, Mom



I'm not exactly sure when it happened. I'm pretty sure I know how.

In the blink of an eye, my adorable, precious, sweet little girl I waited forever for grew up. There were a few years there when she thought I hung the moon -- those days when I would rock her for hours, read her stories, have tea parties on a blanket in the backyard and watch "Wiz of Oz" for the one thousandth time. But that was long ago.

Those were the days when she wanted me around, when she would bring me the parent volunteer forms and make me sign up to chaperone her field trips, when she would allow me to come to her class on volunteer days.

Those days are long gone.

She's a teenager now, you know. And just-like-that I have become the Uncool Mom,   the one no cool teenager wants around -- unless I'm driving her to Barnes and Noble.

Just last week her class went on a trip to the local wetlands park. I was available. I would have gone. My BFF Kristal, whose daughter is my daughter's BFF, went.  So, I asked my kid:

Me: Hey! You want me to go on the field trip?
Her: No, that's OK.
Me: You sure? I can go.
Her: No, that's OK.

So I didn't.


This week, I regained a portion of my coolness when I spent a small fortune to buy tickets to the annual New Orleans Voodoo Fest. This is a three-day festival over Halloween weekend in New Orleans' City Park, where a bunch of bands you've probably never heard of and the Foo Fighters will perform. For $175, you can buy a three-day pass to see and hear all of them. For $76 you can go one day. My kid, however, only wants to see one, single band, her OMG ABSOLUTE FAVORITE band, The Arctic Monkeys. Yeah, betcha never heard of them either. I have, because I'm cool like that.

But apparently I am NOT cool enough to accompany her on this adventure. No, she has decided to take her older sister, Courtney.

"I think she would have more fun," she said.

She's probably right. Frankly, I have no desire to go to New Orleans City Park at 9 o'clock at night (which is what time they are scheduled  to play), fighting traffic and a bunch of drunk/hungover and probably drugged out hipsters for elbow room. I really only want to watch her watch them. But, that's not cool, apparently.

So, last night my precious, beloved child came and sat next to me.

Her: I don't want you to be sad, Mom. I feel bad. I feel like that episode of Full House where D.J. got tickets to see the Beach Boys and decided to take Uncle Jessie and Danny got sad. I don't want you to be sad.
Me: I'm not sad. I just want you to go and have a good time.
Her: You sure?
Me: I'm sure.

And she wandered back to her room, appeased.

I'm so glad there was a box of tissues close by.








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