Daughter has never been a jeans wearer. She's always opted for cropped pants or shorts or skorts or thin cotton pants. I imagine some of it has to do with her sensitivity to some fabrics, an issue she has gradually overcome or outgrown. But most of the clothes she has are so damn thin that I fear the principal will be calling CPS soon enough. Damn, the girl tries to escape most days without a jacket. While I will grant that she doesn't feel the cold like I do -- it's the frigid British blood running through her and her siblings and her dad -- she still needs some heartier clothes.
So imagine my surprise when she consented to get some jeans last night. She even wanted two pairs! [Brings tears to the eyes of this jeans-wearing mama.] And so we bought them. And so she tried them on. And so they fit. And so I thought she looked spankin'. And so did she.
[Okay, the pose is funky, but the attitude is there.]
Not a jeans-wearing girl, my girl. Until today, when she agreed that she did like them. Quite a bit. And off to school she went. [Without a jacket.]
"Those jeans don't really suit you," one of her "friends" said, with another one jumping in to agree with the first.
If you've read my babbling at all in the last month or so, you know why I had to put quotation marks around the term. Yes, dear readers-so-bored-with-hearing-about-my-daughter's-encounters-with-fifth-grade-bitches, they're back at it. These are two of the same bunch of "friends" who messed with Daughter during her Student Council run. [I thought about linking to those earlier posts, and then I decided against it because it would just rile me up even more.]
I exploded. Granted, I'm operating on about 11 hours sleep in the past three or four days. But ENOUGH IS ENOUGH! I told Daughter those girls were mean bitches. Bitches. Bitches. And I must have used that word a dozen times.
I try to tell myself I might be overreacting. I try to tell myself I'm sleep-deprived. I try to tell myself I'm just generally sad right now. I try. But I'm failing to convince myself.
These were the opening words said upon Daughter's approach to her "friends." It's not as if Daughter asked, "How do I look?" Or that Daughter said, "Oh, gross, you're wearing that?" Or that she'd just run over one of their cats and sped away without stopping, laughing maniacally as she did so. Or that Daughter had done anything but approach her "friends."
We talked it through, once my cursing about mean bitches stopped, and we've come to the same conclusions as we did a month ago: there are friends and there are mean bitches. Let's go get us some friends.
Make new friends
and ditch the old.
One is silver
and the other is mold.
Kinda catchy, don't you think?