Last weekend I took my 11-year-old daughter clothes shopping, hoping we’d get a jump on back-to-school prep. (Back-to-school season now starts somewhere in June, if everything I see is any indication.) Our mission took us through multiple stores, like hapless Goldilockses in search of the elusive Just Right.
It was no walk in the park.
“There’s nothing. The stuff I like doesn’t fit and the stuff that fits I don’t like.” She likes neutral-to-punk-to-grunge styles, but those options were at least two sizes too big. What did fit were frilly, precious clothes adorned with glittery "Girls Rule!"- type slogans that aren’t her.
The adult section, it should be noted, was no better had I been looking for anything. Sure, I could have fit into and possibly rocked those bulky cottage core and halter top maxi dresses, but I would have been but a spritz of Jean Nate away from cracking open a Tab and watching Fernwood Tonight. The only other option was athleisurewear, a word and a style that elicit a visceral reaction akin to the word “moist” for many.
My daughter is a tween, a space between childhood and adolescence, and as such, there’s a world of limitations for her.
I’m feeling an in-betweenness myself. Between young motherhood and the unknown. Between visible and invisible. Between living up to potential and uh-oh.
What to call this? Tween2? The Tweening?
“Tweenerhood.”
That’s the word. Yeah, it’s got “weener” in it, but that’s how I feel at Store #6 because all the clothes geared for my tweenerhood would make me look like a Weeble and that’s not the kind of self-expression that screams personal glory.
Tweenering is odd. Nothing fits or feels quite right, and the world is ever-ready to remind us that we should probably wait until things do fit or feel right. Yet, that elusive finish line never arrives, or worse, we realize we passed it long ago – a prime that lasts as long as the ripeness of an avocado.
I try to imprint myself on my daughter, hoping my words will eventually become her inner voice. Yes, go ahead try it on. I don’t care what section it’s from. Yes, you look good. Try a different size. I like your style, kid. We can go somewhere else. Don’t compromise. You need to feel good in this. Try to find things that have ONE trendy element on them, not three or…all of them. How about that one?
She doesn’t model the try-ons for me. The process is between her and the mirrors in the changing room. Time after time, she comes out and shakes her head. “Not right.”
More stores, more armloads of clothes. As we hit more stores, she shares stories about some kids making fun of her style, calling her "emo" because she currently likes to wear somber tones. Others tell her she should dress "more like a girl." I have all sorts of feelings about that, but just ask how she feels about that whole mess. “I don’t care what they think of my clothing, I just wish they’d keep it to themselves. It’s annoying that they’re trying to upset me.”
While she navigates her tweening - the shedding and becoming - and also tries on more outfits than I’ve eaten meals, I think about writing – another process of shedding and becoming, governed by its own laws of physics and a dash of magic. Writing, for many of us, is a way to push back against mortality, leaving behind traces of eternity in every sentence read by someone else.
I wonder, if I die during this shopping spree – which by hour five seems plausible – would it be weird to have someone distribute my books from home in some sort of funereal goody bag? “Here, have a piece of eternity in the form of a great story.”
And that’s also not-quite. Not-quite normal, and not-quite what I want to dwell on while my daughter untangles herself from ridiculously fussy clothes. She's ensnared between straps much like I am in the middle of this writing journey.
This draft is my “Tender Draft” – not the thrilling first draft, nor the more-fleshed-out second draft. It's the draft where I edit as a reader, sniffing out errors, plot holes, and boring things. The next draft, my favorite part, will be the "Tweaking Draft" – playing with language and presentation.
It takes a lot of nerve to write a damned book. It takes a lot of nerve for us to do what we have to do to get through our own personal Not-Quites. I hope we can all find someone to stand outside our figurative dressing rooms and reassure us that what we like is good (within reason. See: athleisurewear above).
It took ten stores.
But store #10 had the stuff. Complete, utter, modern punk and grunge for my excellent daughter with her mermaid hair, and it was perfect. Her smile told me everything. She's in the in-between of it all, willing to keep going until she hits one shore or another. What choice do we have, really, if we want to grow into ourselves?
It’s all about wobbling, no matter your style.
Your essay made me realize that I'm in my tweens too. I just need to remember to be nicer towards myself than I was when I was young
Thank all that is holy for Store #10, awesome daughters with mermaid hair, fumbling through tweenerhood, and that brilliant idea about passing out books at one's funeral -- I might steal that. Love you, beautiful friend who will always be visible to me (but boy do I feel that transition to invisibility happening -- wild, weird).