@postaday 362; #postaday2011.
When I turned 10, or 11, or 12, back in the ’60s, there were a few things a little girl was very eager to do: be a teenager, kiss a boy, and wear makeup. As I look back I realize that I was rightfully terrified when each of these things took place. Being a teenager is hell. Kissing a boy for the first time is usually not all that magical. And wearing makeup? I still don’t get it. Sigh.
As a mother of two daughters, one 12 and the other 10, I fully expected to eventually hear the question, “Mom, can I wear some makeup?” And then I poof a little powder on their nose and rub Vaseline on their lips. I envisioned shopping with them, picking out a little compact, some muted eye shadows, pale lip gloss, and then laying out the ground rules of how much, what, and when. Sigh.
I’ve been cheated. For my birthday party Sunday evening, both daughters spoke of wearing a little makeup with each other, and since I overheard it, I had a look. Their skin is not yet ravaged by breakouts, so their beautiful faces were a little more luminescent, with the faintest shimmer of eye shadow, a swipe of lip gloss, and a brush of blush. Did they consult me? Did they ask my advice? Did I, from the Age of Aquarius with its vivid turquoise and green eye shadows get a chance to offer my personal tips?
No. Have you seen me? I’m not exactly an expert when it comes to makeup. I try, and I like mineral makeup, but I’ll never be an eyeliner pro, and I never wear mascara. Sigh.
When the girls were very little and attended dance school, they had to wear stage makeup for recitals. As a stage mom, I learned how to put on their makeup so they looked good under the lights. It felt sinful, turning six-year-olds into show girls. My daughters remember that, and as a result they are experts at application sponges, brushes, and pencils. Sigh.
Several people who know me have heard me spout my personal philosophy about raising children. I believe if your children aren’t smarter than you, then something is amiss. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that my daughters are passing me in the glam and looks departments, and of course I’m proud at how poised and beautiful they are.
But shouldn’t they humor me and let me speak to them from my own experience?