This morning, I was nearly dressed when Rebekah walked into my bedroom. On Wednesdays, we attend a homeschool co-op and she often wants to wear matching outfits. I love this age. But, instead of her usual cheery morning greeting, she greeted me with unusual disdain.
“You’re wearing that?” She was as eloquently sarcastic as a teenager, showing me with three words and the correct inflection that I did not meet her approval. At seven, she astonished me. She shouldn’t really be able to demean with that level of proficiency until she was at least 14.
“Yes,” I replied, suddenly inwardly doubting my attire choice. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Mom, I’m gunna’ be SO embarrassed!” I had to read her face, countenance and attitude to determine if I was going to scar her for life if I continued in the path. When I decided it was only a battle of the wills, I dug my heels in.
With all the parental authority I could muster I stated confidently, “I have waited my whole life to be old enough to wear what I want, and I am going to wear it.”
Illustrating textbook mortification she flopped on my bed with despair and said, “I’m doomed!”
She really is too mature for her age. She shouldn’t be capable of such dramatic interludes until she is at least 15.
I pulled on the final offending garment, heart myself jingle and wondered if I really should have taken a stand for my right to dress myself. Maybe I should have gone with the matching look, instead.
(This is what happens when you try to open your eyes wider to hide the wrinkles, you end up looking like you just sat on a tack.)
Because, this is what I looked like all day.
This is the sweater my daughter, Bethany, made for me last year. She meant to embarrass me by making the World’s Ugliest Sweater. Instead, I embarrass her by wearing it and telling everybody she made it.
But, somehow, walking around today, jingling, jangling and snagging on all the unsightly things hot-glued to my sweater, I came to the conclusion that the joke was still on me.
Literally, on me.
And I put my foot down for the right to dress myself?
I read a book somewhere that said 7 year olds were short teenagers. When my daughter started "teen talk" at that tender age I told people it was because she was really being reared by her teenage brothers and their friends.I'd call your choice of dress eccentric — and memorable 🙂
I guess my granddaughter can dress herself now, too. Here is the post.http://therolis.blogspot.com/2009/12/all-in-day-of-brookelyn.htmlThanks for the cheer, Ruby! You made me laugh.
You go Mindy! You have earned the right to hold your head high when you walk about with glitter and such stuck to your sweater. You spent years wearing the kids "Throw ups", poos and other delightful messes that only a mother would suffer, so don't let them get you down. You've earmed it!