The Miracle of Coolness

My thirteen year old told me the other day that she was sad for me.

And it's not because her crazy, busy schedule means I have a crazy, busy schedule.   And it's not because of the stresses that come with caring for an ill parent or the difficulties and demands of life in general.

My daughter is sad for me because of my Instagram feed.

Duh.

And also because I don't quite make the right choices when it comes to color...of make up and nail polish, but those are mere minors.  It was the majors that finally got to her - like my Instagram feed.

She explained that my feed is just a bunch of pictures...of other people's kids.  Uh-huh.  I know what she wanted to yell:  where's the fun, where's the excitement, what is this thing you call life, mom?!

And that's when she broke it to me:  "Mom, it's just.... like....well...you don't need to try to act cool...because you're not cool.  But that's OK, mom."  

I'm so glad she broke the difficult but necessary news to me.  And, frankly, I'm a little surprised it took her this long to figure it out.

My minivan alone could give it away.  I mean, minivan.

But beyond that, my ride has a dented and broken front bumper that also has a missing license plate on the front because of the dented bumper.  And it also has said license plate sitting on the hutch between the driver and passenger seat.  I use it for my breakfast plate in the mornings.  I figured out this system after dropping a blueberry on my seat...and sitting on it...and not knowing it.  That was fun.  And cool.  To add to the car's excitement, it also has a broken volume dial, so when a danceable song comes on the radio, I crank it....to volume level TWO.  Yup.

And yes, I just referred to my minivan as "my ride" and barely caught it.

I fully admit, my eldest, that I also don't always have the coolest responses in the world.  Like, for example, that time your new youth leaders asked for ideas of things kids your age like to do, and I suggested they take you for "an after school snack."  Oh, yes I did.

And I won't argue that not noticing I was wearing my shorts inside out when in public may be construed as a little "dorky,"  but at least they weren't backwards.  You know?

There's no doubt that yelling at your locker and calling it names while trying to hang contact paper the day before eighth grade started may not have been the coolest move on my part.  Let's just be glad that the guy who walked past wasn't one of your teachers.  He's a custodian, honey, so you only have to see him like just a few times during the week.  Just a few.   And suggesting we put the leftover black contact paper on your teachers window....

I know.

Not cool.

I remember very clearly when my own parents lost their "coolness."  Remarkably, I was right about the same age as my eldest.  They even walked uncool.  In fact, I distinctly remember seeing my mom one time walking into my seventh grade hallway.  I couldn't handle it so much that I turned and went right up the stairs on the opposite side of the hall.

But, here's the miracle, oh daughter of mine:  my parents somehow grew out of their un-coolness.  It was inexplicable, I tell you!  Nothing short of miraculous.  I actually wanted them to drive me to college and for some strange reason their ridiculous advice and crazy antidotes became....funny.

Crazy, I know.

I took my mom to get her nails done last week and brought with me my oldest and youngest daughter.  We all sat next to each other getting our toes painted.  My youngest picked out her color and when I told her I loved what she chose, she smiled big.  When I told my eldest I liked her color, she proceeded to switch colors (because picking what the uncool thinks is cool has potentially devastating affects).

Of course, due to my current failure of polish color, I had my eldest daughter assist in my color choice.  My mom can't speak anymore and has trouble communicating her emotions, but she's still my mom, and she can still disapprove.  I couldn't help but laugh at her obvious disapproval of my black toenails that I allowed my eldest to pick out for me.

Because for some reason I'm still trying to be cool.  Even though I still drive my minivan.

And I watched as my mom's toenails were painted.  She's worn the same color as long as I can remember, and when I was in Jr. High, I tried to stop her from making such demoralizing mistakes.  But, somehow, it looks lovely now.  Miracle of miracles.  My lovely momma, even as she fades.  And amazingly, I have no shame in putting my arm around her, smiling, and telling her that I love her even though she disapproves of my nails.

Someday, my sweet daughter, my polish choice will inexplicably become a good color.  I may or may not still put my shorts on the right way and may drop you off to college jamming to T-Swift at volume level two.

And yes, I just used the word, "jamming," and just admitted that I listen to Swifty (and yes, I just said that too).  Now you can die to the world.

But when you put your arm around me and smile, I will know that you experienced the same miracle I did.