I Don't Know About Those Shorts

This morning, Sophia emerged from her room wearing new clothes her dad bought her over the weekend.  Her outfit was cute: short denim cutoffs, a black spaghetti strap tank under a sleeveless cotton screen-printed Beatles tee, and boots.  It looked like something one would have worn in the 1980’s to a Guns N’ Roses concert with the exception that she and her clothes looked clean.

I had no issue with the look.  I mean, I prefer her to go with the Land's End conservative approach, but that's not her and that's OK.

I had issue with the shorts.  They were short.  And I had issue with the boots with the shorts.  It was too oversexualized. 

She unrolled the shorts and they were better.  I was still uncomfortable with them but her argument was valid: “Mom, these were the longest shorts in the store.  Now they are rolled down, which makes them absolutely not cool, but I am willing to deal with it.”

She put a jean jacket over the tank and cut-off tee combo.  She changed out of her boots and put on her navy blue Keds.  I told her she looked cute and she glared at me.  I am certain this was her way of telling me she was filled with disdain because she had the strictest mother on the planet who wouldn't let her wear things that made her look good.

Little does she know, she looks best in her softball shorts, a loose tee, and sneakers.

After Sophia left for school, Antonia emerged from her room wearing denim shorts that came to her knee and a cute tee covered by a zipped hoodie.  On her feet she wore the new Toms her dad bought her over the weekend.  She looked cute.

We proceeded to have a conversation about how uncomfortable short shorts are in that they crawl up your crotch and you have to constantly pull them down out from between your inner thighs.  I added that I thought the school should just ban shorts all together.  I said, “The buildings are air-conditioned.  Shorts are not necessary.”

She agreed.

I helped her put on her 50 pound backpack by grabbing her long wavy hair and holding it to the top of her head.  I didn’t want it to get caught between the backpack and her back.  That would be painful.

She abruptly waved me off and proceeded to say, “Now I’m going to have to brush my hair.”

Her disdain for her hair is expressed every morning.  This makes no sense at all because her hair is jut lovely, I mean very lovely.

Little does she know, I think she looks best when she just grabs her hair and twists it up into a ponytail.

I’m trying to help them love themselves.  I tell them they look cute, but I don’t make a big fuss over it.  It’s like a passing thing: “You look cute today.  Did you grab your lunch?  Don’t forget you have rehearsal after school.”

Maybe they would realize they are beautiful if I made more of a fuss over how they look. But I won’t.  That was done to me as a teen and as a result my entire self-worth was based upon it.

Little did I know, I was also smart, creative, and funny.

Sometimes I have no idea if what I’m doing is going to produce a positive outcome—that outcome being two grown women that compassionately kick ass in whatever they do.  Until that time, they are just going to have to deal with long shorts and possibly consider getting hair cuts.

photo credit: Shandi-lee via photo pin cc