She’s wearing black athletic shorts and a black t-shirt, her braid bouncing off her upper back as she strolls beside me in the parking lot. We are heading into Nordstrom Rack in search of a dress for Senior Class night, and I silently pray that she will trade in her current footwear for a cute pair of wedges.
After almost eighteen years of parenting, I’ve learned when to keep my mouth shut. I would never wear black athletic socks with Birkenstocks, but Gwen would. Gwen is. They look almost hip on her, in a so-dorky-it’s-cool kind of way. I don’t say a word, but she does.
“A friend in my German class told me the black socks and Birkenstocks looked ugly,” she told me matter of factly. “But that’s okay. I embrace it.”
She owns her off-beat fashion choice, that girl of mine. She is not the only teenager sporting the look, and a quick Google search of “black socks and Birkenstocks” yields results giving the trend a thumbs up. Still, it is not universally admired as runway worthy. Gwen doesn’t care; the sandals are comfortable, the socks keep her toes warm in this freakishly cool and wet May weather.
Will she always embrace her own choices, even when they are outside of the norm? I do know that she has vehemently embraced senioritis. Symptoms began showing after the first college acceptance letter arrived, and it was full blown by the end of Spring Break.
“Are you planning on studying for any of your finals?” I asked her last week.
“Nope,” she replied, not looking up from her fifth episode of Fixer Upper or whatever home show she is binge-watching on Netflix.
After three and a half years of intense studying, the last half of senior year has been as stressful as first grade. I hope she remembers how to study when she gets to college.
“But that’s okay. I embrace it,” she said about her questionable fashion statement. Her word choice reminds me that embrace is my word of the year. Five months in, and I’m trying my best.
I’m embracing the sad state of my home; two adorable foster puppies create havoc. Rugs are rolled up, barricades are in place, and we have used approximately eight million poop bags and two million rolls of paper towels.
I’m embracing the fact that Gwen has three days left of high school. I’m allowing the excitement and joy to trump the sadness. She still has 95 days at home; I know this because she is counting down. Loudly.
I’m literally embracing James whenever he lets me, and reminding him that he will be getting all of my love and attention when his sister goes to school. He knows I’m teasing, but I think he knows that I’m not really teasing. I think he’s scared.
I’m embracing my waning interest in writing in this space, because I know it will still be here when I get my mojo back. And if I don’t get my mojo back, I’ll try to embrace that, too.
I’m embracing flowy shirts and elastic waist capris, which will be the perfect (and only) fit with the quantities of chocolate and ice cream I can’t seem to stop shoving in my mouth.
I will NOT be embracing the black socks and Birkenstocks. Only a teenager and an old man can pull that off.
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