Best Bat Mitzvah Banter

The first time my now teenage daughter went to a bar mitzvah, she was barely five. It was one of the greatest events of her little life. 

She wore a diminutive Dior dress (a showroom sample my enterprising mother found in New York), she had an "updo." She sat at a table with other kids — and away from her parents. The bar mitzvah celebration included a DJ, dancers, stuffed animals, sunglasses, crazy hats and more. As we drove back to our hotel late that night, she fantasized aloud about her own bat mitzvah.

Um ... minor problem.

"We're not Jewish," we explained.

As elated as she had been with all the festivities, that's how deflated she was at the news. It seemed quite unfair if you asked her. Not that she really wanted to learn Hebrew or read the Torah, but the party part? Yes, quite unfair.

Since then, we've been to several bar and bat mitzvahs together. Sometimes we've even participated in the celebration — we lit candles for our nanny's two girls, and my daughter wrote and read a friendship speech two years ago.

Even though my daughter once longed for a bat mitzvah of her very own, she's definitely in awe (and a bit intimidated) by all the work that leads up to our young friends' readings in temple. Yet, in all the years, I've never seen a bar mitzvah boy or bat mitvah girl flub their lines. Even kids who are shy or quiet in their everyday life rise to this important occasion. (We did have one small girl who broke down in tears while she made a little speech about how much she appreciated her parents and sister. But, she kept going. And, honestly, it was all the more meaningful.)

The 13-year olds aren't the only ones expected to speak either. Whether in the temple or at the spectacular after-party, moms and dads (and sometimes siblings) share their thoughts about how hard their child has worked and how proud they are of him or her. These are emotional tributes at an emotional time. Because we generally know the family, we usually feel honored to be part of it all.

But they rarely make us laugh. Out loud. A lot.

Last week, at a spectacular bat mitzvah party (after a truly impressive performance in temple), we were treated to a bit of cross-generational humor that I'd like to share with you.

Our young friend's father made his way to the dance floor (no easy feat, given the presence of smoke machines and laser lights, and waitresses passing sushi on platters of dry ice) and educated us all.

After the usual remarks of awe and appreciation about his daughter's accomplishment that weekend, he proceeded to fill us all in on some of the key words and phrases she and her friends use to communicate. Ever the successful businessman, he even had a PowerPoint deck. 

TBH                                            To be honest
Ravé                                           Rave or party
Optimus banterous                     Talk of the town
Q Scandalous                             Lots of fun
Tha Bae's                                   Your friends
BTW                                           By the way
NGL                                            Not going to lie
Dungers                                      Outfit
Totes swag                                 Really great
LUSMS                                       Love you so much

This being jolly old England, it was particularly fun to note any variances between the UK and US. (At times, I felt like I was learning text talk by way of Harry Potter. It was smashing.)

He ended the speech by putting all of it together in a special message for his daughter, which he read aloud to the delight of partygoers old and (especially) young:

YO, TBH, YOUR RAVÉ WILL BE V OPTIMUS BANTEROUS. Q SCANDALOUS WITH THAT BAE'S.

BTW, YOUR DUNGERS IS TOTES SWAG. LUSMS!

The party was, most definitely optimus banterous. All the more so, TBH, thanks to our young friend's proud papa.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

Say "Yes" to the Dress

Yesterday, we took good friends of ours out for a fancy schmancy brunch at one of our seaside town's yacht clubs. My daughter wore a dress.

This is the part of my story when the heavens separate and little animated angels and cupids flit about, joyously playing horns and harps. (Think Monty Python and the Holy Grail.)

My daughter wore a dress. "Hallelujah!"

If I had the time or inclination to write a parenting blog ten years ago, my daughter's choice of brunchwear would not have been the least bit newsworthy. Back then, she only wore dresses. In fact, she only wore pink dresses. I basically scoured sale racks and the children's department at Marshalls for any and all things pink so she'd have enough dresses to get her through preschool and playdates without my living in the laundry room. She had lacy ones and sporty ones, long ones and short ones, preppy little Ralph Lauren jumpers and over-the-top dressy numbers with Disney princesses.

All dresses, all the time. And, all — did I mention? — pink.

Just before her sixth birthday, my daughter started riding lessons. Suddenly, we were buying breeches and boots. She expanded her school wardrobe to include sweaters and pants embroidered with ponies. She wore blue jeans. As the first graders started categorizing their peers, "So-and-so's a tomboy," "Whats-her-name's a girly-girl," she became more and more sporty.

Good-bye pink; good-bye dresses.

Oh, I could still get her into an appropriately frilly Christmas outfit for annual pictures or a trip into Boston to see the Nutcracker with her grandmother. But, that was about it. The rest of the year, no way, José. The more she could look like she was going to a stable, or coming home from a stable, or actually at a stable ... the happier she was.

Then, one day a few years ago, she announced that she wasn't going to wear dresses. Anymore. At all. Ever.

In fairness, my daughter's mother (uh, yes, that would be me) practically never wears dresses or skirts either. My idea of getting dolled up is a pair of flowing black silk pants with an embroidered Asian jacket. So, I didn't really feel I could insist that she say "yes" to a dress. But, my willingness to respect her style didn't make life any easier. It's fairly simple to find elegant pantsuits for women my age. For tweens, not so much. I had to get creative: black satin jeans with a white silk blouse, velvet tracksuits with rhinestones. She was always presentable, and arguably more stylish than the other girls, I guess. But I have to confess, I missed my pink princess.

The road back to dresses took some time, and it was marked by a handful of specific milestones. For example, the year my daughter turned 13, so did most of her friends. That meant more than one opportunity to party with her homies at a local synagogue. Not only did all the girls wear dresses, but many also wore loads of makeup and extremely high heels. Happily, we embraced the dress idea (albeit reluctantly), but stopped short of completely tramping it up.

At about the same time, the other students in my daughter's riding class were turning sixteen. (Having ridden more than half her life, she's at a fairly advanced level for her age.) Most of the time, these older girls are in jodhpurs or jeans and caked in hay, if not horse crap. Suddenly, my daughter saw that they were willing to get a little glamorous. They still rode as fast and jumped as high; they were still serious horsewomen. But, they cleaned up real nice.

The final stop on our journey, was our cruise earlier in the summer with my best friend and her college-bound daughter. Under this older girl's approving eye, my daughter not only wore the dresses I'd forced her to pack, but she bought two more while we were on the trip!

So, back to our brunch. Our friends had brought their nine-year old daughter who was wearing a frilly tiered dress over a pair of leggings. She looked adorable. My daughter was in a short, flirty dress, snakeskin patterned with a ruffled skirt. It was a gift from my mother who has never accepted the "no dresses, no way, no how" edict. I had to lend her a pair of my shoes (the years-old aversion has led to a severe lack of appropriate footwear), and she also looked adorable.

So now that we have finally broken the dresscode stalemate, I'm thinking ahead to the holidays. After being denied for so long, I am eager to hit Saks or Nieman Marcus and buy the most classic party dress I can find. However, I know better. At this stage, I'm not dressing my daughter; she is quite definitely dressing herself. I can maybe, kinda, sorta point her in the right direction.

But the decision — and the dress — will be hers.

Get Her to the Temple On Time

This morning, my tween daughter had to get ready to attend the bar mitzvah of one of her best friends.

As you know, a bar or bat mitzvah is a major event in the life of a Jewish boy or girl and his or her family. In our community, bar mitzvahs are major events for all thirteen-year olds, Jewish or non-. Bar mitzvahs give tweens a chance to party without their parents, and to try on who they want to be when they grow up. Girls who wear grubby tee shirts, jeans and sneakers to school every day suddenly put on too-short skirts and too-high heels. And girls and boys actually dance ... together!

This particular bar mitzvah had been anticipated for months.

As my daughter's designated alarm clock, hairdresser, makeup artist, fashion consultant and gift wrapper, I knew I would be busy. But, I thought I had it all under control. The bar mitzvah outfit was figured out in advance, we were carpooling with another family, and I had arranged to meet my friend for a late morning Zumba class instead of our usual earlier one.

What is it they say about the best laid plans?

We had agreed that my daughter would get up at 8:30 am, giving her a chance to catch up on some sleep, but still affording her an hour and 40 minutes to shower, dress, do her hair and makeup, and wrap her friend's gift before she was picked up for the drive to the temple. At the appointed time, I went in, my usual sunny morning self. (You know, the one that drives my daughter nuts.)

"Time to get up, sweetie." And it began ...

"Mo-om," came a groan from under the sheets, "I'm so-o-o-o-o-o tired."

"But, you have to get ready for the bar mitzvah," I reminded her.

"But, I'm so-o-o-o-o-o-o tired."

"You really have to get up," I insisted again.

"But, I'm so-o-o-o-o-o-o tired," she repeated, adding "You don't understand." No, of course, I don't understand. After all, I'm never tired. I'm pushing fifty and I run a business and a household; how could I possibly understand what it feels like to be tired?

"Please, just five minutes," she pleaded. I agreed. Mistake number one.

More than five minutes later (heck, it was more than ten minutes later, but who's counting?), I heard her get into the shower. Meanwhile, I put breakfast together on a tray so she could eat while she was getting ready. She came to find me in her bathrobe.

"Can we go to CVS and get that stick-on nail polish I wore that time?" she asked. We're only five minutes from CVS. I was thrilled that my horsey tom boy wanted to do her nails. And, as I've established in previous posts, saying "no" is not exactly my forte. So, I agreed. Mistake number two.

The trip was quick. We honed in on the Sally Hansen Salon Effects Real Nail Polish Strips. She chose a pattern that looked like rainbow-colored camouflage. Let's just say, it wouldn't have been my first choice. But, she was happy. We paid, raced back home and still had thirty minutes.

Sally Hansen's marketing copy says that all you have to do is "Peel, Apply and Go!" So much for truth in advertising. As we struggled with the adhesive strips and the miniature nail file that's supposed to shape them, the phone rang. It was the other mother, the one who was on morning synagogue chauffeurial duty. She was concerned about the weather and wanted to pick my daughter up a bit earlier than we had agreed. More than a bit. She wanted to pick her up, like ... now. Given that my daughter was in her underwear with wet hair and long strips of nail adhesive hanging from her fingers, I couldn't have agreed if I'd wanted to. But, I did offer a compromise. I suggested ten minutes. Mistake number three.

Nails trimmed, dress on, hair up ... it looked like we were going to make it. I still had to wrap the present for the bar mitzvah boy, so I told my daughter to get my makeup out and get started. Fourth and final mistake.

The gift looked great. My daughter's raccoon eyes? Not so much. Just as her friend's mom was pulling up, I was wildly searching for eye makeup remover so we could undo the damage and start over. But, we did it. My daughter looked beautiful and she headed out more or less, kind of, sort of, almost really, well close enough, on time.

Mazel tov!