Mother's Day
Scene: Mother’s Day morning. My house. My two daughters and I are assembled, discussing plans.
Me: So, let’s go to the beach and family surf for like an hour, then we’ll get brunch. We haven’t surfed together in so long! I can’t wait!
My 13-year-old: Mom, I can’t go to the beach with you.
Me: What? Why not?
13: I can’t be seen with you in public anymore. It’s not cool. Plus you are going to make me wear big bikini bottoms and it’s going to ruin my tan line. (Author’s note: Let’s get one thing straight here, her “big” bottoms would still barely cover a flea’s ass. But at least they don’t go straight up her backside like some kind of tropical print dental floss!)
Me: Wait, what? Are you serious?! You have to go with me! It’s Mother’s Day! And why can’t you be seen with me!? I’m totally cool! I surf! I’ve got abs!
13: (stony silence)
Me: Well, how ‘bout you can meet us at [surf spot]? We won’t even paddle out together. We can still surf, but you don’t have to subject yourself to the ignominy of being “seen” in my presence on land.
13: Are you going to let me wear small bottoms?
Me: No! You are 13! You can’t wear those! They are practically a thong!
13: Then I’m not going! (Starts to storm up the stairs.)
Me: Wait! So you are literally choosing your ASS TAN over me?! On Mother’s Day?!
13: MOM! (Keeps storming.)
My 11-year-old: (Looks at me sympathetically and shrugs.) Let me know when you know what we’re doing. I love you, Mom.
I was incensed. My kid not only does not want to be seen with me in public, but she wants to parade around basically naked from the waist down in front of my friends, pervy old men, teenage boys!? Besides that, it’s Mother’s Day! M-O-T-H-E-R-’S DAY! And she is so self-centered and mean, that she can’t even make one tiny concession and wear a suit that is still microscopic, just not a thong, because preserving the brown-ness of her perfect little, popped out teen butt is more important than surfing with her mom for one hour on Mother’s Day!? Sweet baby Jesus, where did I go wrong?
I began to cry. And not just cry, but wail theatrically. Maybe if I cried hard enough I could guilt her into submission. Nothing. I stormed up the stairs and slammed my door. Still nothing.
Then, a blessed moment of lucidity between the tears:
Lucid me: Um, hi. You do realize that you too are acting like a spoiled child, right? What’s your goal here?
Real me: To torture and guilt my 13-year-old for being an awful brat to me on Mother’s Day.
Lucid me: Stop. You are the grown up. What is your goal today?
Real me: To spend time with my kids and have fun with them on Mother’s Day?
Lucid me: Yes. Good. So is this the day to take a stand against ass tans?
Real me: Well, maybe not. But I’m not going out in public with her mostly nude!
Lucid me: Well, then choose another path, Grasshopper.
It was not like me to easily put my anger and petulance aside. But, hey, what the heck, right? There’s a first time for everything. I took a breath, dried my tears, popped out of my door, and said brightly: “OK kiddos let’s get in the car and go have an adventure! No surfing. No beach. Still fun!” Thirteen eyed me warily, but complied. Eleven hopped right in.
First stop, junk food plate lunch at a usually verboten outdoor diner.
Next, massive rainbow shave ices at Waiola Shave Ice. But there was a catch: In order to get one, they had to wear the matching Billabong trucker hats that said STOKED across the front that I got on sale the week before. If I was going to skip my favorite place on Mother’s Day (the sea), then I was at least going to get one embarrassing picture to lord over them for years to come.
Last stop, the pet store. It was puppy adoption day. My mother used to take the girls all the time when they were littles and they loved it. Breeders bring their puppers in for people to cuddle—and usually buy. But not us. Not today. We were just looking and petting. We were not getting a puppy.
“WE ARE NOT GETTING A PUPPY,” I proclaimed. “We can hold and pet all the puppies we want. But we are NOT walking out of there with a new dog. No new dogs. Got it?” I made them pinky swear.
And guess what!? We did not walk out of there with a new puppy!
We got a fucking guinea pig instead. I caved to the guilt and begging after about 30 minutes and “compromised” with a small caged rodent which they would “completely take care of by themselves.” I knew at the time this was a hollow promise. I knew that guinea pig would be my sole responsibility in about a week. But the little fur ball, which 13 named Yoncé, was cute, she had a shorter projected lifespan than a dog, cost about $30 vs $300, and she made them so dang happy.
Parenting lesson of the day? A guinea pig is a small price to pay for four happy, contiguous hours with your fully-clothed daughters. Secondary lesson: Do not ever bring your kids to the pet store with you.