Ripped

My dad would take me to school every morning on his way to the office, and as soon as he was out of eyesight I would roll.  I mean roll and roll and roll the top of the skirt until it was about mid-thigh.
The dress code for skirt length at my Catholic high school was fingertip length. My skirt wasn't that long to begin with.

Unfortunately, I had to walk by the office for my second class, and just when I thought I was in the free zone I would hear Mrs Hatfield call out " Miss Gunn, please come back here."   She would ask me to put my arms down to inspect the length of my skirt.  Before I would do this, I would shrug my shoulders up to my ears in an effort to fool her.  I tried to explain I was genetically predisposed to extremely long arms, and even longer fingers and this rule wasn't fair.   I received a warning, but as the years went on, I would be forced to wear the school "pants" which were hideous corduroy bell bottoms. I wore them so many times that when I graduated, Mrs Hatfield told me I could keep them as a commencement gift.
My husband went to an all-boys military boarding school, so I can't imagine he was a fashion rebel unless you count letting his shoes lose their shine.

I share this because right now I have a teen that is the same age.  Fifteen years ago I remember his birth. Specifically, I remember asking (pleading) for an epidural.   Which makes me think epidurals are wasted on the birth, they should be offered for the teen years. It would make it a lot less painful for me.  I'm kidding, sort of.  It is not physically painful. More emotionally.  A friend of mine told me that he doesn't give a flying f*ck what his son wears to school.  But the thing is. I do.  I give a lot of flying f*cks about it.

If you are my friend, you know this because I have talked about to anyone who will listen.   Since my friends are all busy now, I have to write about it, and since you are reading this,  you are going to have to be subject to it too.

My son has recently taken an interest in his personal style.  Up until this point, I have had the privilege to dictate what my boys wear.   I enjoy this.  Every morning, I would lay their clothes out.  I would describe my boy style as East coast casual with a hint of West Coast edge.  Or professorial kid-chic.  The truth is, the boys didn't care what they wore as long is it was easy to put on and wasn't uncomfortable.   I was also hoping to influence their little boy minds so that when they were adults, they would know that plaid doesn't look right with stripes. 

So now I have a boy, who wears ripped jeans and jean jackets.  He looks like Zach Morris if Zach Morris would have been mugged on the way home from the Max.  Or as a friend pointed out, he looks like Donny Wahlberg from NKOTB circa 1989.   Another friend of mine was much more flattering. She just came back from an Italian vacation and said that he looks very European.

Being a control freak, it takes all I have not to take these ripped jeans and send them to the European boys.  

I thought long and hard and probably too long about this.  Why does it bother me so much?  Why do I have a guttural reaction whenever I see his knees through his pants?  I don't have the same reaction when he wears shorts.  
After discussing it over drinks, with yet another friend, I had an A-ha moment.  

 I'm using my children as mini representatives of me.

I'm worried that anyone who sees one of them walking around with ripped clothes is going to have some opinion about me, and my lack of parenting.  That ripped jeans are the universal sign of neglect.  That ripped jeans are a red flag of my ability to control our family's image.   That ripped jeans scream horrific fashion sense and I cannot deal with it.

The truth is, this isn't just about clothing. I think parents do this all the time.  For example, you might be hesitant to tell a fellow parent that your child is not interested in going to college, but a trade school. Because that ultimately says your child won't have a collegiate degree.  "Then why did you spend all that money on tutors, and SAT classes and after-school activities?",  they may ask.  What will they end up doing with their lives? They may wonder.   And then the questions will be pointed at you.  Why didn't you force them to apply to college? It turns into a parental issue and has nothing to do with what is right for the child.

My friend pointed out that my son is an amazing young man.  He has empathy for animals and little kids (other than his brothers, that is an entirely different blog post).  He is creative and thoughtful and very funny.  He loves spending time with his grandparents on Sunday afternoons. He has more friends than I can count.  He sends me texts telling me to have a good day at work. 

No amount of ripped faded jeans are going to change that.

The reason I wore short skirts in high school wasn't that I was trying to be provocative.  It was because it was the style.   It was also because I played soccer and my mom had told me that I had beautiful legs.   Can you imagine if she would have told me the opposite?  That I had ugly legs? A parents reaction to their child's attempt to express themselves could leave a lasting impression, do I want it to be a positive or negative one?

I have decided to let these ripped jeans go. If this style makes him feel good about himself, then who am I to tear him down (pun intended.)   I have spent the better half of his life preparing him to be strong and have his own opinions, I guess I just thought that his opinions would be more in line with mine.  Parenting mistake #501.

I'm not going to love him any less if his opinions just happen to be different than mine.