The scene: This morning, 7:45 am, in the Living Room. Princess had finished getting ready for school, I was sucking down the last of my coffee to give me that much more of a caffeine high before I headed off to the gym. (Squirrel!)
Princess: Mommy...
Me: Yes, Bubba? (My newest pet name for her, derived from "baby". You have to say it with Martin Short's accent from Father of the Bride.)
Princess: (Doing her best Karen Walker impression, pointing awkwardly at me with a disgusted look on her face.) You're...you're not going to wear that to my poem recital? Are you? (The fear in her voice was as thick as a cake donut with no frosting to cut it.)
Me: (Dressed in workout clothes, hair pulled back, no makeup...literally disgusting.) Bubba, when have I ever gone anywhere in public looking like this? I'm always put together. I can't exactly go to the gym looking like a movie star.
Princess: I'm just sayin', Mommy. I wouldn't want you to embarrass yourself in front of my friends.
Me: (Inside, thinking that I'm so gonna ream her for that one someday. Think of something creative! Think, think, think. Aha!) In that case, I'm going to show up in my jammies and bunny slippers.
Princess: (Fear, pure fear on her face.) YOU WOULDN'T!
Me: (Smug as hell, knowing I just won this discussion.) Don't think I won't. And I'll call you Bubba in front of your friends. Doesn't embarrass me in the least. And guess what, sister? I don't have a problem embarrassing myself. I do it all the time. It's fun! Remember the heelies? (Side note, slipping on a pair of heelies just after eating a big plate of beans is not a good idea. Think coordination and need to hold in your core in order to balance, then add a side of gas... Yeah, do the math.)
Princess: Mommy, please don't!
Me: (I'm winning, I'm winning! Na na na na na na!) Then don't make fun of my gym-fab outfit here. Check out the stylish Nike's and my aerodynamic ponytail. It's the hotness.
Princess: (The guilty, worried look on her face is just priceless. Ha! I'm one smart Mommy.) I just don't want to see you this way at school. Please don't wear your jammies to my recital. (She starts heading toward my closet to pick out my clothes for the day, as if I'm incapable of putting together a decent outfit on my own. Wait a tick...The tables are turning. She's suddenly winning. Crap.)
Me: I'm not going to wear jammies or gym clothes to your recital. I'm going to look like a respectable Mommy. And don't be picking out clothes that make me look like I'm going on a business trip. (That's when she pulls out an outfit that was even better than I had in mind.)
It's official. I'm uncool and my daughter has better fashion sense than me. And so it begins....
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