My Generation?

I recently read a book called The Chaperone (L. Moriarty) in which a 15-year-old girl is escorted by her thirty-six year old neighbor to NYC while she auditions for a dance troupe. While I was completely captivated by this historical novel that takes place in the 1920’s, there was a particular theme that struck me as I read. Actually, there were many themes, but since I spent an intimate weekend with my fifteen year-old, I couldn't help but philosophize about the theme that preoccupied me the most. It's something that tends to marginalize the young and the old. I believe it's simply called the "generation gap."

In the novel, Cora initially attempts to teach Louise Brooks (who eventually becomes a true-life Hollywood star) lessons on propriety in an era where prohibition is tempting the fates of the cool, young flappers. As the young Louise disregards the tightly-wound, but well-intentioned chaperone, I felt Cora’s pain. I, too, see my daughter’s mocking expression when I don the always fashionable black turtleneck or a sensible pair of clogs.

I wished my Alex could recognize that I was young. Once. And not completely dorky. Well, maybe a little dorky. But I really had a spunky sense of style. I mean, when I wore the neon pink mesh gloves with my Tina Turner concert t-shirt over my Izod polo, I was RAD! And the other thing? In addition to my law school plans, I intended on becoming a rock star...maybe someone who rivaled Lita Ford. Yeah, I was that cool, despite my lack of showmanship and actual talent. (But hear this my daughter: I still wouldn't have worn skin-tight skull jeans on an outing with my parents. I'm just saying.)

So once my life followed the glamorous path to banking and I found myself living the life I dreamed, with a lovely family, I became puzzled by the fact that an actual generation gap existed between me and my kids. I mean, when I became a mother, somehow, I didn't expect to...age. (As a matter of fact, I read about some old fathers in the newspaper today who became first-time parents of twins. I was amused at these codgers, until I realized they were just a few years older than me.)

I pondered the point-in-time in which the "generational divide" began to really make its presence known. I decided it was when Alex turned three. It's when she really began to have a dissenting opinion on just about everything...how I dressed her, how I fixed her hair, how I prepared her food. And she's been going strong on those dissenting opinions ever since. But that's okay. I'm getting used to it. Well, that's not really true. But every once in awhile we agree on things. Important things. Like how much we love our dog.

And I can't help but love her. She's irresistibly clever.

And for another book review....Killing Kennedy.

My Girl

Fourteen years ago today I went into the hospital to have a baby girl. My doctor said that I almost didn't make it. No disrespect, Dr. Markham, but I know deep in my heart that I was nowhere near death. I had way too much to live for.

Alexandria Grace Kramer.

My brown-eyed Bam-Bam.

She could drag a coffee table across the living room by the time she was two.

Her credo to life came not merely from her parents, but from maxims memorized out of The Lion King. "Because being brave doesn't mean you go looking for trouble right, Mom?" "It doesn't matter! It's in the past!" They might have not flowed in the course of the conversation, but if the tone veered toward serious, Alex took it upon herself to insert sage advice using one these quotes. Of course, maybe I shouldn't have let her watch the movie five times in a row while trying to paint the cupboards one rainy afternoon.

My darling girl simply took on a style all her own by the tender age of three. Enough said. I won't get into the clothing wars because I want this to be a nice blog about my daughter. Let's just say I love her sense of style. Most of the time.

Alex came out of my womb talking like she owned the place. She still talks like she owns the place. Well, that's what you get when you have a smart girl. I like that a lot. Especially when she studies.

I love when she plays guitar. I love when she plays piano. I love when she writes a paper. I love when she tells me something poignant. But you know what I love the most about Alex?

She is kind. She is kind to the elderly. She is kind to poor people.  She is kind to pets.  She is kind to strangers. She is usually kind to her brother.

It is this kindness that makes her, with those deep brown eyes, the most beautiful girl in the world.

Alex at 1 year- when I could dress her.

Taking Alex to the Movies

I'm excited. Alex seems to like me again. She has always loved me, but something has changed within the last couple of weeks. Like, she's asking me, like, what should she wear with this shirt, or like, what shoes go best with this outfit. AND, the other day she even asked, like, what my favorite movie was when I was a kid. (I'm a female born in 1969, so obviously my favorite was Grease.)

Anyway, just as I thought we had made it through those rocky, independent years between the age of six and nine, she threw me a curve ball.

"Mom? Are you and Dad gonna, like, going to the same movie as Lexi and me?"

"What? Of course!"

She sighs. "Like, Drillbit Taylor is showing in the other theater though With Owen Wilson."

"So. Nim's Island looks good to me!"

Another sigh.

Sensing my daughter's discontent with my response, I accomodate her. "I tell you what. Dad and I won't sit by you and Lex."

She accepts the terms.

As soon as she and Lexi receive their concessions, and before we receive ours, they shoot off into the theatre to secure prime 2nd row seats among their other friends. I spy an opening in the third row, directly behind her! Perfect.

"Ugh! Oh, Mom. You are,like, so lame." She didn't quite get the joke, I guess. So, I am sent back to my husband who looks quite comfortable in the assigned parents' section. "We're getting old, Hon."

"Yep," he states happily devouring the buttered popcorn.

But I'm a bit saddened. Watching the kids' expressions was as much fun as watching the movie. Well, at least I shouldn't miss any lines in the movie. Or have to take a potty break. Maybe.

But guess what? I can still hear her cute little laugh. Even from the parents' section. It makes me happy. No matter how old she is, her laugh makes me happy.