Crop Tops & Heart Hands
“Ummm, not for school, honey.”
Tate comes to breakfast in one of the tops she bought for herself, because I’d said no. Too short, too tight, really more like a sports bra in size, but super thin with ‘Brooklyn’ written across her chest.
“What? This is my new crop top I bought with my own money. You knew I bought it…”
“Yes, I did know that and it was because I wouldn’t, remember? So, it’s fun and cute but it’s not an appropriate one for school, babe.”
“Mom! What?! Why not? I came out here feeling really great about myself. I think I look really pretty and it’s so cute on me and it’s not too small and it’s not inappropriate and it’s not fair …”
Since she was a tot, I’ve had her lay out her clothes for school the night before. I let up on this as she’s gotten to middle school, though inside I think we all would benefit from this practice.
“Honey, you know the ones I’m okay with. It’s not like I don’t allow you to wear crop tops like some parents, I do. It’s just this one is not ‘enough’ top! It’s so not okay!”
“Thanks a lot, Mom. I spent a lot of time getting ready and really felt good about myself and now I don’t. I don’t get why this one is different than the others you let me wear …”
Tears well up in her eyes. This is somehow my cue to soften, though I wish I would’ve earlier, every time.
I stay firm but restrain my annoyance. That’s too much. She’s a kid, still learning and falling in love with her developing body.
I can’t stand it when our mornings go sideways like this. When our precious half hour together is strained, filled with disagreement or discontent. Not how I want to start my day or for Tate to begin hers.
“I’m glad you feel confident and strong and I always want that and as you know, with school, we need to consider some other things as well …”
It goes on and on like this. Back and forth.
I direct Tate to consume some breakfast while she whines and moans about needing to go change her outfit, begs me to reconsider and tells me I’m being way too strict.
In the car, she sits in her oversized boy t-shirt (just to make a point), silent, trying to punish me. I let it be quiet and work on evening out my breathing, feeling my sitsbones, regulating myself.
At the last stop light before school, I say, “I don’t want to have mornings like this. They’re not fun for me or for you. So, if you want to run a crop top by me that you think may be questionable, please do that at night, when we have time and it’s not ‘last minute’. I’m open to talking then about these types of things but I won’t engage in debates on clothing choices in the morning anymore.”
She stiffens her lips and looks at me to show me she hears.
“And, I love the way you’ve braided your hair. It really suits you.”
Silence.
When I pull up, she huffs out of the front, opens the back door to get her 30-pound backpack and lunch bag and things and I tell her to have a good day. She mumbles, “You too.”
Tate slams the back door. I exhale slowly, audibly. I’m still watching her walk away, when she suddenly turns around with warm, confident eyes and flashes me her hands bound together in the shape of a heart.
