At this moment, on the eve of the first day of school, my nine-year-old is talking on the phone, to a friend, and playing a computer game over the internet. Leaving aside all your critical comments about supervision and perverts, all of which I assure you I have considered and hopefully covered, I ask you this.
WHERE DID MY BABY GO? How did she get to be almost 10 and talking on the phone and caring what she wears? Listening to Hilary Duff on an iPod that she knows how to work? Next, she’ll be shaving her legs and requesting a particular kind of deodorant! Honestly, she was little, I’m sure it was just last week. Don’t I still have the scars from her birth? Surely those would have faded by now if she was really going into Grade Four.
And as if to prove that I am truly heading for middle age at breakneck speed, I also need to acknowledge the fact that for the first time in my life today, I wore knee-high nylons. You know, new fancy job, new fancy wardrobe, the good old socks just wouldn’t cut it anymore. You can’t wear dress shoes with cotton socks, and as it is after Labour Day, sandal season is definitely over. I had to break down. Of course, first I had to buy them, because heaven knows I’d never have had them in my wardrobe prior to the onset of middle age.
Ah, the sacrifices we make to climb the corporate ladder – some compromise their ethics, others their marriage vows. Me, I just recant my age-old wardrobe vows. (Well, at least the underwear thing is covered – I’ve found thongs that work for me, so I can avoid unsightly panty lines, and mitigate some of the frump from the knee-highs). Hopefully it will be worth it – aren’t you supposed to emulate what you want? I’m sure all executives wear knee-highs. Maybe I should get some fishnet knee-highs. That might make them more palatable.
Maybe it’s time to go back to the hairdresser and reaffirm my not-quite-lost youth. I’m thinking of something from the purple family, maybe. They hired me when my hair was royal blue, after all.
Okay, Aimee’s been on the phone and the internet for 45 minutes now. Do I go start nagging, because that seems to be the thing that parents of pre-teens do, or do I let it go and see how long she talks? Maybe she’ll self-regulate and hang up soon.
I think I’ll take the high road, and go eavesdrop outside her door. Maybe while I’m listening in, I’ll get some brilliant brainstorm about how I’m going to pay for her university education on such short notice.
As a post script, she just came up to make her lunch for school tomorrow. She asked where Carrie was. I asked who Carrie was. She reminded me that Carrie is the carrot she chose last night when we were shopping. She picked out five and named them all. I told her she shouldn’t make friends with things she was going to eat. “I won’t eat them then,” she said.
Ok, maybe the childhood is not compltely gone. There’s hope. Kind of puts the brakes on the maturing, doesn’t it?