When I was pregnant with my first child, a daughter, I honestly had no idea what to expect. I had only babysat kids a handful of times and they were already school-aged kids, so by the time I had her I had never changed a diaper. I didn’t know how to bathe a baby, how to dress her, how to feed her. I had never even held a baby.
I’m not kidding.
When my daughter came into the world I went from blind excitement to absolute fear in a matter of minutes. I ended up wrestling with post-partum depression and it affected my bonding with her. It took work to stay in the moment, so thinking of how I would parent as she got older wasn’t even on my radar. Slowly but surely, she has grown up. We’ve tackled potty training when she REALLY didn’t want to. We’ve dealt with first days of school, making new friends, learning how to be a friend. Milestones like riding a bike, reaching the monkey bars, swinging, and how to handle a scraped knee have morphed into wearing makeup and shaving her legs. Polka-dotted skirts, sparkly shoes, and funky tights have turned into camisoles, oversized hoodies, and most recently… a lacy bralette.
It started shortly after Christmas. She had gift cards to burn and her friend invited her to the mall (without me because I’m not cool) so off she went. Just as I’m freaking out over her going to the mall without me (Predators! Kidnappers! Aggressive flat iron salesmen!), she comes home loaded with bags of new things. I start reminiscing about the first time I went to the mall how and my big purchase was a jaw breaker ball the size of a fist that I had to keep in a bag for months in my room. When I tried to recount this story, I got a completely blank stare from her and I’m sure any cool I still had left dwindled to zilch.
She starts showing me all of her purchases, outrageously expensive jeans (full of holes… she paid for jeans full of holes), a crop top sweatshirt, a bunch of camisoles, makeup, scrunchies, lotion, and… a bralette. Now to be fair, I thought it was a tank top and didn’t really look at it because she shoved it back into the bag quickly. But the next day when she came bouncing down the stairs in her new jeans full of holes and only the lacy bralette on top? I thought for sure her dad was having a heart attack and I asked where the rest of her clothes were.
Which is how the heated battle of “is a bralette a shirt?” started.
We both furiously Google examples. We’re pull up Pinterest outfits to prove our stance. I text my friends with older daughters and ask what my move should be. She’s in tears because I’m not “getting it” and “everyone else wears them!” and I’m sure that CAN’T be true because there was a polar vortex happening outside and I’m certain people aren’t walking around wearing just a bra.
Suddenly, I had a vague memory of bouncing down the stairs as a 14 year-old girl in a see-through black lace shirt and having my mom say to me, “Who do you think you are? Madonna?! Put a shirt on!” I realized that I am the mom. Good gravy, I am the mom. This is my circus, this is my monkey, and I am grossly unprepared to handle this bralette and I know it’s only a sign of more to come. As our showdown came to an end in the middle of the dining room, I said the first thing that came to mind, “Who do you think you are? Cardi B?!” I got a huff but she did go up and put an actual shirt on.
I haven’t seen the bralette since.
The whole incident made me realize that I have no idea what I am doing. I have three other kids behind her so I feel like I have to really get this one right. This kid is my prototype. I can see why parents are so strict with the first one: there’s a lot of pressure to not screw your kid up. So I’m muddling through. I’m trying to give her room to grow and make good choices and I now know what all those looks my mom gave me as a teen meant. It was her way of biting her tongue until it was probably bleeding in her mouth, which is exactly what I did when a bunch of teenage girls were rapping Cardi B’s hits to me during a recent sleepover. Not only am I uncool, but now I’m old.
