Lookin' Good Mom

In many households, weekends mean that an overworked, underpaid and utterly unappreciated maternal type such as myself might sleep in. 

But, no. Not in our house. 

You see, summertime Saturdays often mean equestrian events which often mean crack-of-dawn mornings at the stable, packing, tacking and trailering. I'm happy to report that I have nothing to do with any of that. But, I do get up for less horsey tasks: making lunch, for example. Or ensuring that my young champion hasn't hit the snooze button one or two (or six) times too many.

Yesterday was just such a Saturday. I was up at six. I fed the dog, I pulled out a lunchbox and a cooler. I was about to go up and begin my morning nag ritual, but I heard my drowsy daughter in the bathroom.

It never ceases to amaze me how she manages to get herself up for horse shows when a load of dynamite under her bed wouldn't wake her on a school day.

But, I digress.

No one in our house has had time to grocery shop lately, so pulling together a traveling lunch was tricky. (Lately, I've sent the offspring off to work with ramen noodles — I know, I know, FLOTUS would be appalled. But, alas, even this option was out of the question; no microwaves at the showgrounds.) Luckily, I found a leftover piece of chicken which I shredded, added some cheese and rolled the whole thing (with a little extra barbecue sauce for good measure) in a spinach wrap. Voila! I figured she would either love it or it (should I say "I?") would suck. But, it was pretty much the only option. I added chips, some not as fresh as-it-once-was fruit, Goldfish crackers and a strange Oreo line extension dessert, a little package of chocolate wafer sticks with a small cup of white frosting filling to dip them into (the last time I actually did go to the grocery store, my daughter insisted that she "needed" said item). I also packed six bottles of water though, so at least I get good mommy points in the hydration department.

Meanwhile, the teen came downstairs, looking neat as a pin in clean riding breeches, tall black boots and a "Got Schmidt?" tee shirt from her favorite show New Girl. She would change into a blouse, stock tie and jacket before the competition. Her hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail (which I would change into a pristine bun before the competition).

"Can you juggle cars with me?" she asked. I'll explain.

We live in a neighborhood that was built around the same time the colonies were transforming themselves into a more perfect union. Suffice it to say, our founding fathers and mothers didn't really plan ahead for parking. We are very fortunate here in "olde town" that our property actually accommodates three cars. But, it's a bit of a jigsaw puzzle. My Miata (24 years old and counting; really, we can get "antique" plates next year) is her vehicle of choice, naturally. But, her father's sedan was blocking it in. Thus, the need for the aforementioned juggling.

So, remember two paragraphs ago when I bragged about how crisp my daughter looked? Let's now contrast that with her ever-loving mamacita. I was wearing a night shirt, one of those oversized tees, faded, stretched out of shape, and embellished with a huge dachshund that wraps front to back with the words "I long to be around you." My hair was standing pretty much straight up. My makeup from the night before, which apparently I hadn't removed despite some lovely skincare products my mother has given me over the years, was smudged around my eyes. And I was barefoot. So, to facilitate car-juggling — and to complete my lovely ensemble — I grabbed a pair of black Uggs from the coat closet.

This last addition was of great interest to our new puppy. I could practically hear him thinking "Wow! Mom put two chew toys on her feet! Far out!" He nipped and tugged all the way to the back door, where I grabbed keys and headed out in all my glory. To my daughter's credit, my appearance was rewarded with only the slightest of eye rolls.

I consoled myself with the thought that no one could actually see me as long as I was behind the wheel of the car. Unfortunately though, as soon as my daughter drove off, I had to pull back into our property and shut the gate. Naturally, two neighbors chose to walk by just at that moment, as did the sweet man who bags groceries at the store that I haven't managed to get to lately. He usually hands me my purchases with a charming "Lovely to see you as always."

Yesterday morning, despite a rather reluctant and embarrassed wave from me, he said nothing.

Hmmmm ... wonder why?

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Field Guide To Moms

We've all heard about Tiger Mothers. In fact, I see them at every PTO meeting I attend (although, I confess, after three years serving as the PTO secretary, I haven't attended much lately — PTO burnout). These are the moms who arrive on time, sit up straight, take notes, and ask questions pertinent only to their little genius/diva/Olympic champion.

"I have a question," they begin, smiling at the group complicitly as though, surely, we all have the same query. "If my daughter is already taking 5 AP classes, can she still start a third language this year?"

Or, "Why does woodwind ensemble meet at the same time as lacrosse? It's really impossible for my son to give up either, and he has his heart set on winning student body president this year."

Or, "Is it possible for the kids to get extra credit for their summer jobs? My daughter is spending July in Geneva, curing cancer."

In a town like ours, Tiger Mothers are everywhere. They regularly email teachers to protest grades. They challenge school committee members, principals, and the superintendent in forums both public and private. They push their National Honor Society tiger cubs into excessive extracurricular activities to build their resumés. 

(Question: shouldn't you have to actually do something before you have a resumé?)

We also have the so-called Dolphin Mothers. These are the liberally educated PBS types. They wear embroidered jackets from Tibet and chunky jewelry. They drag their offspring to cultural events. While their manner may be more fluid, they still expect extraordinary things from their often ordinary kids.

While Tigers and Dolphins (and Helicopters) may be the most famous, here are some other mothers you may see out in the wilds of upper middle class suburbia:

The Ostrich Mother, who buries her head in the sand. As far as she knows (or wants to know), her teen is doing fine. No school issues, no friend troubles, no eating disorders, no inappropriate use of digital technology. All fine here. Thank you. Nothing to see. Move along.

The Harp Seal Mother, who sacrifices everything for her teen. In nature, the harp seal nurses her newborn 24 hours a day for 12 days. (Yikes!) During this period, the pup gains 60 pounds while the mom loses 84. (I repeat, Yikes!) In humans, this phenomenon can be observed in what teens and their moms are wearing: Uggs and Abercrombie vs. the clearance rack at Marshalls. 

The Octopus Mother, who has her many hands in as many things as possible. She runs the church youth group, coaches softball, tutors reading, organizes fundraisers, volunteers at the local thrift shop. She is generous, dedicated, utterly tireless. You see, if she stays really involved, she won't really have to let go.

The Koala Bear Mother, who carries all the weight. These moms are über supportive. In fact, they want their little joey to succeed so badly that they don't just jump in and help, they happily take over. Teen daughter's too tired to finish her essay on Ayn Rand's Anthem? No problem. The Koala will write it for her, and still find time to mash up a nice meal of eucalyptus leaves.

Most moms I know blend characteristics of all of these types. I've certainly helped with homework (stopping well before all-out ghostwriting, but I can understand the temptation). My daughter does indeed dress better than I do, and she'd be the first to complain about my high expectations and how often I insist we go to plays and museums. And, although I don't completely hide from awkward teenage truths, I have been known to turn the occasional blind eye.

So, which mother am I really? 

You'll have to ask my daughter.

It Doesn't Matter if the Shoes Fit ... As Long as Everyone Else is Wearing Them

"I did not have three thousand pairs of shoes, I had one thousand and sixty."

... Imelda Remedios Visitacion Romualdez Marcos

A deposed dictator's wife, her shoe obsession was held up as an indication of an arrogant, self-absorbed lack of regard for the common man. But, let's be honest. Imelda was in good company.

Oprah, Carrie Bradshaw, Victoria Beckham, Danielle Steele, Tina Turner, Kim Kardashian, Barbie. These women, real and imagined, have amassed footwear collections that wouldn't fit in my house much less my closet. These women have woven shoes into their media mythology. They're beautiful. They're rich. They're spoiled. They can, if they choose, take Paul Simon's advice and wear "diamonds on the soles of their shoes." Literally.

I get it; I do. Shoes are a perfect union of function and fashion. They can get us where we need to go — and ensure we turn heads once we get there. The right ones are exquisite little works of art, ornamenting the most mundane parts of our bodies. In fact, there's something symbolic about putting so much money (hundreds or even thousands of dollars) into an accessory that will be scuffed and dragged and scraped along the ground. "No sweat," you're telling the world. "I can afford it, and I'm worth it. 'Don't like it? You can kiss my ... feet."

In this culture, at least, women of all ages, backgrounds and financial means join in the hunt for the perfect pair. You can find as many enthusiastic shoe shoppers in the discount aisles of Marshalls as you can on the plush banquettes at Neiman Marcus.

But, at what age do females become obsessed with shoes? As the mother of a tween, I'm here to tell you it's young, very young, younger than you might think.

I blame Cinderella. How does she win her man? It's not through her smarts, through hard work, through her kindness or her gentle nature. It's not even through her good looks. Cinderella gets the guy because ... the shoe fits. Instant happy ending! Really, why haven't more shoe companies leveraged the whole Cinderella story? Talk about a product placement made in ad agency heaven.

Then, there's Dorothy. Dorothy Gale, remember her? Her ruby slippers were the key to getting an audience with the so-called wonderful wizard and getting back home to her beloved, if colorless, Kansas. One of the original pairs worn by Judy Garland in the 1939 movie (there were several used during filming), sold at auction in 2000 for $660,000. And, Harry Winston created a tribute pair with 25 karats of genuine diamonds and rubies, valued at $3 million. That's a lot of Milk Bones, Toto!

My daughter had ruby slippers for a few years, although I found them at Target and they cost considerably less than the Winston versions (oh, about $2,999,990 less). Every Christmas, Target displayed bright red glitter slippers and I bought several pairs. They were my daughter's signature look at Sundance Preschool. The girl had style!

Soon, however, the need to conform to her peers became stronger than her desire to look like a movie star. Suddenly, ruby slippers were out and light-up sneakers were in. They were actually pretty cool. Diminutive athletic shoes with lights along the sides and on the soles. Stomp your foot or run through the playground with a particularly heavy gait, and your classmates were treated to an impromptu light show. There were Disney Princess, Teletubbies, Sponge Bob and Dora the Explorer options. Stride Rite and other top shelf children's shoemakers had versions of these, but economical moms could find them cheaper.

Then, around third or fourth grade, my daughter and her friends suddenly realized that there were different price points where shoes were concerned. I regret to report that the assumption they made (and we, as adults, seem to make too) was that the more you spend, the more you get, the more worthy you are. Labels became oh so important. The girls didn't want boots; they wanted Uggs. They didn't want sneakers; they wanted Nikes. They didn't want sandals; they wanted Crocs.

Let's talk about Crocs for a minute. My favorite quote comes from my husband. "$40 for rubber shoes? What a crock!" Not only did all the girls need (yes, that would be "need," not "want") Crocs, but they also had to amass a vast collection of "Jibbitz," the clip-on jewels, insignia and characters that adorn them.

(Full disclosure here, I tried a pair of Crocs myself. They were very comfortable, but made my feet dirty. They went on to the local good will in practically perfect condition.)

The other tween brand worth mentioning — and one that is having a longer shoe shelf life than the Croc, which fell out of style halfway through sixth grade — is Ugg. Ugg boots are very warm, very stylish and very very very expensive. There are plenty of sheepskin boots that approximate the look of Uggs, but the girls know which are genuine and which are "fuggs" or "fake Uggs." My daughter is an ardent animal lover and I thought that might convince her to try synthetic fuggs instead. After all, as PETA activist Pamela Anderson finally realized years after pairing the boots with her bathing suit, sheepskin Uggs are made out of ... uh ... sheepskin. (Ms. Anderson set blondes back a bit with that one, I'm afraid.) But, no dice.

(Another confession, I also have a pair of Uggs. They were marked down to $50 at T.J. Maxx and I've had them almost twelve years. I've worn them so many times, and they've been subjected to so much snow and ice and salt, that they are mere shadows of their former selves. My daughter recently sniffed, "Mom, are those supposed to be black?")

So, here's the bottom line. Do I really have the right to criticize my daughter's shoe choices when I've made the same choices myself? Is it fair to think that Crocs and Uggs (or ruby slippers and light-up sneakers) are silly when I have a small but beloved collection of Christian Louboutins (if one pair, splurged upon for a very special family wedding, constitutes a collection)?

At least, I know my daughter and I are not alone. While other apparel categories have seen a decline during the recent recession, shoe sales have actually increased. This is especially true for luxury women's brands like Louboutin, Blahnik and Choo. Is it because of Sex and the City? Or because heels give us an extra lift and we all long to be taller? Or because shoes still fit no matter how many helpings of lasagna we've had?

It's a mystery. But, like mother like daughter. If the shoe fits — and it's pretty and it's on sale and I still have twenty minutes to kill before a lunch meeting — I'll buy it.