There are times when I look at my daughter and am simply in awe of the graceful, beautiful young woman she has become. She never did hit 5 feet, but she has filled out and her face has matured; I can just glimpse the woman she will become in a few years.
And yet there are still those moments when the kid in her comes out. We went to see “Aladdin” last week when she finished her last final. I was hoping to avoid it, though it turned out to be much better than I expected. The most enjoyable part, however, was watching her turn into a little kid again.
As mature as she is, Kay is straddling two worlds. There is the one in which she wants to curl up and watch family-friendly movies and drink hot chocolate and, less frequently, the Kay who gets dressed for a dance. Not that she approaches school dances in the same manner as I or my friends did at her age—we used to get dolled up, experiment with make-up and nail polish, and hope to meet boys. Kay wants to hang out with her friends. In fact, she shut down the boy who tried to get to know her at a school dance last month in a “take no prisoners” fashion. She turned him down for a dance and made it clear she wanted to talk to her friends and not to him. I was informed that he went and sat in a corner with his hoodie over his head and pouted.
“That boy needs to toughen up,” she told me. “Maybe,” I said. “But maybe it took all his nerve to ask you. Turn down anyone you want, but be kind.”
“Yeah, well, my friends said he kept staring at my backside while we were dancing. I’m wearing sweats and a baggy T-shirt next time we have a dance.”
I am not surprised that the boy was staring at Kay. She is gorgeous and has a nice shape; I’ve watched creepy men check her out since she was 11. I told her she should do whatever makes her comfortable, but secretly I was thrilled. (I have been joking for years that I’m buying her the equivalent of a burqa for her 16th birthday.) I can’t help thinking back to all the times I have put up with pantyhose and mascara, body shapers, and uncomfortable clothing so I would look nice for a date. I wish I had been more like Kay—dressing for comfort and my own peace of mind.
I am sure she will hit that stage when she is boy-crazy. I know it is coming—she notices cute boys and attractive actors now. I just hope the clothing won’t get too revealing. We are constantly having the discussion about tight jeans and bared bellies. She tells me I am a prude and she should be able to wear anything she wants. In a perfect world, I would agree with her. I am a die-hard feminist. I think women should be able to show any side of themselves to the world that they choose. But, society is an imperfect experiment. Rape culture is a real thing. While I know intellectually it is NEVER the victim’s fault if a man takes advantage, I worry that my daughter will draw attention to herself. I don’t want her to ever, ever have to wonder if a skimpy dress landed her in the ER, so I always stress that she can dress prettily though retain some modesty—and to keep in mind that you can’t run in high heels.
Not that this ends with the teen years. I went on a date a few weeks ago that ended with me asking a police officer to walk me to my car. I was on a blind date with a man who appeared to be perfectly nice, though I suspected something was off from the get-go. He asked me to dinner and said we could go to the MGM Casino after we ate, so I dressed up. He showed up in jeans and a rugby shirt, making me seem very overdressed. After dinner he suggested a movie, not the casino. Since we were practically across the street from a cinema, I agreed. The minute the lights went out I was back in high school, fending him off and finally raising my voice. He growled at me and stormed out of the theater.
I was really shaken and when the movie ended, I asked the on-duty cop to walk out with me as I did not know this man and had no idea if he was lingering outside. And then I blamed myself. “I was showing too much décolletage,” I told a friend. “You do not get to blame yourself for his bad behavior,” she barked back at me. She was right, of course, but it is the first place my mind went. Then it went to my daughter, because I am not sure how women are supposed to balance their freedom of expression with the practicality of staying safe. So I stick with teaching her to err on the side of modesty, but I put a personal alarm in her backpack just in case.
