Hot Child in the City

After spending two summers in Connecticut, my daughter tried a new riding camp in Vermont this year. The cross-country course was better. The food was worse. The cabins were better. The activities were worse. The other girls?

"BESTEST EVER!!!!!! BFFS 4EVER 4LIFE!!!!!! OMG!!!! THEY ARE MY BESTIES!!!!!"

But, all good things come to an end, and a three-week eventing program is no exception. Parents arrived Saturday, watched their daughters compete in a three-phase show, stayed overnight nearby while the girls had an awards banquet, and before you could say "I'm gonna miss you so-o-o-o-o-o-o-o much," it was all over. Back to their separate lives in their separate states.

But, not to worry. This is 2011 after all. The girls became instantaneous Facebook friends. And after much texting, "poking," instant messaging and picture-posting, it was unanimously decided that a camp reunion was in order.

Several of my daughter's aforementioned "besties" live in the greater New York City area (New Jersey and Westchester county), so, the big apple would be the ideal place to meet. Although we're up in Massachusetts, I'm always game for a trip to my hometown. Grandma's bed and breakfast was available, so we set the date and a whirlwind of planning commenced.

Anyone who knows me will assure you that I am the queen of theme. So, I took it upon myself to come up with some ideas for this shindig.

"What if you all meet at the Central Park carousel?" I asked.

Blank stare. I kept going. "Horses? Y'know, horses? You guys all love horses?"

"Oh-h-h, that's a go-oo-od idea. Yeah. Uh-huh. I'll think about it." my daughter answered. From experience, I recognized this as "Lamest idea ever, Mom. I don't think so."

"Too bad the "Horse" exhibit isn't at the Museum of Natural History anymore," I continued.

"No offense, Mom ..." she began.

Time out. When my daughter says "No offense, Mom ..." I steel myself for something offensive. It reminds me of the line "With all due respect ..." as used in The Sopranos. Whenever one of the underlings started a statement, "With all due respect ..." you always knew they were about to disrespect Tony. And, Tony didn't react well to disrespect if you remember. Blood, guts, gore ... not well at all. Suffice it to say that my daughter is just lucky I'm a copywriter and not a mafia boss.

"No offense, Mom. But I don't think they're gonna want to hang in a museum."

I realized she was probably right, and promised to keep thinking. Meanwhile, one of her friends (who is clearly a better party planner than I am!), came up with an inspired and exacting itinerary. It went something like this:

12:30 Arrive Times Square, Meet at Forever 21

12:30 - 1:15 Shop at Forever 21

1:15 Walk to Abercrombie

1:30 - 2:15 Shop at Abercrombie

2:15 Frozen Yogurt Break

2:30 Walk to American Eagle Outfitters

2:45 - 3:30 Shop at American Eagle Outfitters

3:30 Walk to Italian Restaurant on 46th Street

4:00 Early Dinner Reservation

6:00 (Tearful) Good-bye

The girls were thrilled. Me? Not so much.

"Okay," I said. "So you and your friends are going to rendezvous in the greatest city in the world and you're going to spend your time in ... mall stores?"

She grinned and nodded enthusiastically.

Best advice I ever heard back when she was going through the terrible twos? "Choose your battles." This field trip of tween consumerism was not a battle I chose to choose. "Fine," I said.

At the appointed hour, we arrived at that historic New York landmark, Forever 21. There was much screaming and hugging and flinging one's tweenage self into each other's arms as the girls reunited. The moms introduced ourselves and wondered aloud at our daughters' enthusiasm and their determination to make this all happen.

The afternoon was a huge success. BESTEST DAY EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Not only did each participant acquire new tee shirts and socks and jewelry and makeovers (Sephora happens to be right next to Forever 21 - OMG! Can you believe it?), but they had photos taken with a real ... wait for it, wait for it ... Abercrombie model!

"He should pull his pants up," I responded when my daughter proudly displayed her picture that evening at my mother's.

"Good one Mom," she chuckled. "Hellooo? He's an Ab-er-crom-bie model." She put the picture in her pocket and headed into the kitchen to hunt for snacks.

Famed New York Times reporter Meyer Berger once said, "Each man reads his own meaning into New York." Clearly, each mother-daughter team does too. For me, New York will always mean Broadway theatre and magnificent museums and incredible people-watching and long walks in Central Park. I've shared so many of these things with my daughter already. But, as she grows up, she'll find her own reasons to love the city so nice, they named it twice.

Spending the BESTEST DAY EVER with a crew of beloved friends isn't a bad place to start.

Like Daughter Like Mother?

When I had my daughter in 1997, I asked all the cool artsy urban friends I had collected over the years to help me stay cool and artsy and urban. I was thrilled to be a mother but a little afraid that I would suddenly become a stereotype. Y'know, a modern-day Stepford wife.

"Please," I urged them, "If you ever catch us in mother-daughter Lilly Pulitzer dresses, stage an intervention."

There was no reason to fear. Short of one matching pajama set (extremely cute flannel Nick and Nora pj's with sock monkeys on them), my daughter and I have never been interested in looking like two peas in a pod. She wears orange or lime green or bright red. I wear black or black or black (hey, I'm from New York). She wears tight jeggings or jodhpurs. I wear flowing yoga pants. She wears bikinis. I wear one-pieces. When it comes to our taste in clothes (like our taste in radio stations, snack foods, and popular fiction), I'm happy to report that the generation gap remains unbridged.

It doesn't bother me that my daughter is uninterested in emulating my style. (Most likely, if you asked her, she would roll her eyes as if to say, "What style?") And, I am certainly not trying to look her age. Sure, I would love to be thinner and younger; I would love to wear skinny jeans. But, they would be my skinny jeans, not hers. There's a good reason why the company NYDJ, "Not Your Daughter's Jeans," can charge over $100 a pair. Those of us who are no longer 20 (or 30 or even 40) are built differently.

My daughter and her friends are devoted to the latest trend. It's not so much that they want to be individuals yet; they actually want to look exactly alike. But, they definitely don't want to look like their dear old moms. This was recently reinforced in a study released by Temple University's Fox School of Business. Researchers surveyed 343 mother-daughter pairs. The average mother was 44; the average daughter 16. (This makes the average mother a little younger than yours truly, and the average daughter a little older than mine.)

The study indicated that when it comes to fashion, daughters were not influenced by the mothers. (Duh.) But a surprising number of mothers were influenced by their daughters. They termed these moms, "consumer doppelgängers." These women look to their teens for guidance on the latest styles and make-up. As the study's author Ayalla Ruvio explains, "Mimicking her daughter is like a shortcut to what is hip and cool."

Uh-oh. Now I guess I know why I'm not hip and cool — I have lots of issues with my daughter's choice of clothing. These should sound familiar to many moms. Low-cut jeans are cut too low. Short shorts are just too short. Bra straps belong inside not outside. Flip-flops do not a pair of party shoes make. But, generally speaking, my daughter is presentable if not downright cute when left to her own devices.

That said, even if I could fit into her Hollisters, I wouldn't want to. (If I could fit into Heidi Klum's mom jeans? Now, that's another story.)

When we go to the mall together (and these trips have increased along with my offspring's awareness of the benefits of retail therapy), we hit all the teen hot spots: Forever 21, Abercrombie, Hollister, American Eagle. But, the only person walking out with a purchase is my daughter. In exchange, I get a few minutes at Chico's, Talbots and J. Jill. More my size, my colors, my style (for what that's worth). I consider this a win-win. Trying to squish my 49-year old thighs into "Super Distressed Super Skinny Jeans" designed for someone who hasn't hit puberty yet? I think I'll pass.

And, that's okay with my daughter too. While the girls surveyed in the Temple study were proud if their mothers look attractive and stylish, it's embarrassing if the moms are obviously trying to look younger. So, there's no need for me to try and dress any age other than my own.

I embarrass my daughter enough without trying.

For another perspective on the Temple University study, read Dr. Ford's essay in Women's Voices for Change.

Swimsuit Shopping or Nightmare in the Dressing Room

The days are getting longer. The weather's getting warmer. Soon, the beaches in our town will fill with families having fun and they'll open up our pool. This can only mean one thing ...

'Time to shop for a bathing suit!

If I knew how to embed sound into my blog, this is where I would insert the eery tinkling soundtrack from Halloween. Or maybe John Williams' famous theme song from Jaws. That might be more appropriate.

Ladies, truly, is there anything more frightening than trying on bathing suits? Oh, the horror! The horror!

Recently, my tween daughter asked if I would take her to buy a new swimsuit. Did she need one? Absolutely not. Did I say, "Yes?" Absolutely! The way I look at it, she only has a few years to enjoy choosing, trying on and buying a bathing suit. After that? Well, I've already explained how I — and every other grown woman I know — feel about it.

Up until now, it was easy to buy swimsuits for my daughter. She had 1-pieces and 2-pieces, racer backs, halter tops, flirty little suits with skirts. The fit wasn't a big concern; whatever I chose simply had to be small enough to stay on and big enough that she wouldn't get a wedgie. I didn't have to worry about how a suit would slide over her curves because, quite frankly, she didn't have any yet.

Contrast this with how I feel every time I realize that I need a new swimsuit. The dread in my gut as I head to the store. The garish dressing room lighting in which my winter skin becomes ghostly white, and every dimple on my cheeks (I'm not talking about the cheeks on my face, friends) becomes a crater the size of the grand canyon. And, let's not forget the ridiculous prices. Seriously, it's not unusual for a suit to cost $125 or more these days. For a piece of spandex in which you feel downright unattractive?

'Talk about adding insult to injury!

I remember the last time I felt slim and confident in a bathing suit. It was right after an 8-month battle with a severe bacterial infection in my GI track, one of those nasty "super bugs" you can pick up in the hospital. I lost 35 pounds and felt like death warmed over. But, man oh man, I looked good in my tankini.

More recently, I found a 1-piece with a flattering surplice top, the kind that crosses over and maximizes what you want it to maximize (and minimizes what you want it to minimize). It had a silly name that some copywriter had come up with: "Slimtastic" or "Slimplification" or "Slimply You." It's not that I felt particularly good in said suit. But, I didn't feel nearly as bad as I expected to. So, I bought it ... I bought it in every color.

Back to my darling daughter. Off we went to the mall to look for swimsuits. She wanted a "real bikini," the kind that looks like three little triangles held together with strings. Browsing through freshly stocked swimwear departments was a pleasure I have long forgotten if indeed I've ever known it. Virtually everything we picked up looked fantastic on her. If something was a bit too tight, she asked what I thought and I told her. We either moved on to another suit or went to find a larger size. No self-recrimination, no desperate vows to diet, no fleeting thoughts of liposuction, no drama.

We ended up with two cute bikinis, one from Kohls and one from Pac-Sun. They had just the right amount of fabric and showed just the right amount of skin. They were sexy but not sleazy. One of them had a reversible top, so we agreed that it was a good deal because we were really getting two suits for the price of one. My daughter looked, and more importantly felt, great in them.

Clearly, when it comes to swimwear departments the current retail system is set up to satisfy thirteen-year olds with their trimmer bodies and not-yet-damaged egos. Here's my suggestion if stores would like their 40-something customers to feel as good (and, consequently, buy as many new suits) ...

Schedule after-hours "girls night out" events. Play soft, relaxing music. Cover the full-length mirrors with flattering, gauzy fabric. Offer a complimentary spray-on tan and dim the lights in the dressing room. And last but not least, ply the customers with extra-strong umbrella drinks.

Yep. The extra-strong umbrella drinks would definitely be the key.