Permission to Twerk, Please.

At five, my kid knows what many adults don't - the meaning of the word, "twerk." Depending on who you are this either makes me a shitty mom, a liberal mom (to some of you those last two are synonymous) or a totally normal mom. Unintentionally, my daughter came across the viral video of the girl who twerked and then caught fire through a revine on my Vine account. She has since discussed the twerking incident at school with her teachers and at home has asked if she was allowed to twerk. By most people's standards I should be ashamed of my poor parenting skills, not publicizing them on the Internet. But if those are your standards, please take a second to come down from your high horse that prances through your glass house and bite me.  This parenting gig is hard as hell, so please cut me some slack. The fact that my daughter knows about twerking doesn't mean I have failed at life - I've still got her teen years left; I'm just warming up, folks. Rather I'll dig a little deeper into this particular incident. She, in fact, reported to her teachers her disgust, that the young dancer didn't stop, drop and roll when she caught fire. Furthermore, after talking about twerking with her dad and me she is pretty aware of its inappropriateness for a girl her age. We have talked to her about not twerking in public. So, it is completely normal for Charley to hear music at our house and ask her dad or me permission to twerk. Her version of the dance move is no more than putting her hands on her knees and shaking her butt - it's  like a really bad, drunk-middle-age-white-woman-at-a-wedding-doing-the-Cha-Cha-Slide kind of move. It's hardly promiscuous. I've seen those Gabba Gabba creatures do more suggestive moves.

When most parents may see total failure, I see a lot of success. First of all, Charley recognizes her father and I as authorities (it's about gosh darn time) as she asks us for permission. It's in the open - there is no secret twerking going on up in this house (unless...Gary?) Second, she is able to recognize the difference between public and private activities - Thank you, Jesus! and may this lesson last through her Twitter years. Finally, for the love of fire safety, my five-year-old knew a stop, drop and roll moment!

As a mom and a middle school teacher, I make it my job to stay relevant. I seek out knowledge of the latest apps, songs, fads and styles. Please note: I am not doing this research as a means to be a hip teen myself. Lord knows, I wasn't cool or stylish when I was a teen, so there isn't a chance in hell, the adult version of myself can be cool when it involves pants labeled "skinny" and dance moves that involve violently shaking my oversized, loose-skinned body against gravity. I simply want to understand the people I encounter everyday- including my own kid. I do not want to be that uninformed, naive mom who is honestly shocked when she finds out exactly which body parts her daughter has been Snapchatting since she was 9. You can put your head in the sand, but good luck keeping your kid's head down in that hole with you. Being a teacher several years before being a parent, I knew that I would have a lot of nasty demons to fight bringing a daughter into this world, and I could not fight them with blind folds and ear muffs. 

At the same time, I am not purposefully parading filth and sin in front of my daughter on flashcards in between sessions with her sight words. I am staying informed so when she (and she will) encounters some of the tougher topics in her life, I can tackle them without my mouth agape and eyes wide - the raised eyebrows and tears falling from your eyes, kinda screws up your credibility. 

So here I sit fresh from viewing the newest video from the queen of twerking herself - Miley's, "Wrecking Ball," and trying to decide how I feel about it. I am in the same place that I was a few weeks ago after watching replays of Miley's VMA performance and seeing her video for, "We Can't Stop" - I'm not affected.  Just hearing the song (without the image of a skinny, naked-girl on a huge metal ball before me) - I like it. But I am 32 and have a pretty solid grip on my self-image. I'm just over here wondering how she avoided some pretty dangerous chaffing, while also impressed with her inner thigh strength. Now, I'm not going to let Charley watch it, but it's not just the nudity that prevents that - what would my 5 year old know about difficult break-ups? So why would she even need to hear this song?  

So, I think I am supposed to be disappointed in Miley and admonish her for destroying her Hannah Montana image and leading thousands of little girls into the evil land on twerking with teddy bears. But I'm not. Miley isn't my kid's mom. Miley is a celebrity and she doesn't get a vote in my house. Charley doesn't ask for Miley's permission to twerk - she has to talk that over with her daddy. If Charley were older, much older, she and I may even chat about the obvious self-expression (and millions of dollars) this former child-star is trying to make. While I am disappointed (to put it mildly) in the irreversible effects Hollywood, Disney, Mattel, and Disney have had on the image and sexualization of young girls, I am going to avoid spending all my time tongue lashing them. I would love to unite millions of women and our daughters in a campaign against these God awful, dangerous images of girls in media. Alas, demonizing Disney is not going help me win my biggest battle - the vicious battle that is curled into a ball, snoring on my lap at this very moment. 

Making media the bad guy will not ensure that my daughter grows up to be a good girl. 

Constant conversations and realistic awareness on behalf of myself, her dad, and her wider circle of influence (teachers, coaches, youth group leaders, aunts, uncles) are what is going to shape my kid. So you can be pissed off at Miley while your daughter watches her lick a mallet or you can turn the channel to watch Diana Nyad kick ass. Either way, you are in the room with your child and you are talking about what you value. 

Maybe you still think I'm a shitty mom. As the kids say these days, #sorryI'mnotsorry. 

Cool-Hearted Snake

3 years, 6 months, and 9 days. The milestone that most parents must wait for their children to reach well into their teen years, was knocked out of the park tonight by my precious, darling toddler. What did the gifted (clearly) tot accomplish at such a young age? Well, she confidently and emphatically declared to the household (and, in reality, the rest of the neighborhood) that I, her mother and giver of life, was 'not cool'. Her exact words, through the tears and snot: "Not cool, mommy. Not cool."

Oh, really?

This would almost offend me - had I not lost every ounce of 'coolness' from the time I conceived this little gem. Cool left me the day I had to use my toes to pick up objects off the floor because I was too fat pregnant to bend over. Cool walked out on me the day I decided that fabric infused with the constricting powers of a tropical anaconda was suitable for underwear. Cool is sucked out of me every day I sing along with Justin Beiber while driving my mid-size, 'crossover' SUV that is one sliding door away from being a mini van. Cool was long gone the second I became interested in various methods of turning average vegetables and snacks into fun insect and/or animal shapes. So tonight - the pint-sized, vocalized affirmation that I was 'not cool' brought me distress ONLY because I had to fight back the urge to burst out in laughter.

So, what was 'Joe Cool' doing to earn the badge of lameness? I was forced to remove the 1,498 toys from my daughter's possession for 7 days. Not my raddest moment. So as I jammed dress-up clothes and potato heads into the closet, my daughter totally wigged out. As each toy left the shelf Charley wailed a heart wrenching, dissertation as to who got her the toy and how it was her most favorite. She snapped when her 'best-favorite-purse-her-Lulu-bought-for-her-forever' was tossed into the closet. (I think she was going with the nonsense-filled sentences to try and build an 'insanity defense').

Background: Charley received a report today from preschool that she was sent to timeout more than once for not picking up her toys. Unfortunately for Charley her mother is a crazy, neurotic public school teacher who privately fears that her kid will grow up to be THAT kid in class, so said mother may slightly overreact to otherwise developmentally normal instances.

But don't worry my kind-hearted friends - in the spirit of the Christmas season that is upon us, the delinquent was allowed to keep 3 parent-selected toys that fit into a small basket. She outgrew her gold, frankincense and myrrh last year, so she was allowed to keep a ball, a book, and baby doll. I actually just needed a way for her to intentionally, practice putting away toys every night (That's right. I even have my three year old child completing daily formative assessments...Stiggins - the next Dobson).

Being told I was 'not cool' was slightly off-putting, however it can not compare to the comment uttered as the last toy was being put away and the tears had eventually stopped. With the biggest smile and sweetest voice, my kind and oh-so-innocent child walked over, wrapped her arms around my leg and said, "Mommy, you are so pretty."

Ah, there's my little sociopath. Good to know that the initial results from my earnest attempt at scrupulously doling out consequences, included mud-slinging, followed by manipulation. I bet Barbara took away all of George W.'s toys back in the day.

How much in therapy fees will this stunt cost me? Or will she be old enough to pay for her therapy herself?