How I Became an Attention-Seeking Drama Queen

I was born and raised in the small town of Ketchikan, Alaska, where Independence Day was celebrated in grand style. I fondly recall weaving through a forest of grown-ups' legs, making my way to the front of the crowd to watch the 4th of July parade march down Front Street. I stared in open-mouthed wonder at the regalia-draped horses and laughed wildly at the Shriners in their funny hats and tiny cars.

While recently looking through an old family photo album, I discovered some snapshots that document my younger sister's and my participation in the parade. I'd like to believe that our mother entered us into some sort of annual costume contest, but I have a sneaking suspicion that she just liked to dress up her daughters and show them off at the largest and most well-attended event of the year.

Here I am at age 2 portraying a go-go girl. Yes, I said a GO-GO GIRL.

Here I am at age 3 as a slightly dimwitted old-timey girl.

In case you're wondering where you can purchase those elaborate costumes,

MY MOTHER MADE THOSE DRESSES.

The woman possesses mad sewing skillz.

And here I am at age 4, transformed into a mermaid. You can't see my face, but I'm probably sticking out my tongue at that baby onlooker in the snappy yellow jacket and powder blue pants. Again, my mother and her own two hands created those costumes.


That's my mom in the red coat, by the way, who—had TLC been casting back then for Toddlers & Tiaras—would have kicked the butts of the other stage moms. Then taken their names. Then handsewn a sequined gown and put me in it.

And now you know all you need to know about my early childhood. Except for my knee socks. I'm saving that disturbing post for last.




Dinner last night: hearty halibut chowder

Redemption

Several years ago, I accompanied my mom to her storage unit, where she kept her extra things in cardboard boxes. I nearly collapsed from horror when I noticed that the two sole photo albums containing the only snapshots of my family's early years were sitting in unmonitored heat and humidity. I asked my mom if I could take the albums home with me to try and salvage the faded pictures, and she said, "Eh, why not." My family is not particularly sentimental.

The albums then lay for what? five years, maybe? untouched in my craft closet. I make myself feel better by pointing out that at least the room is temperature-controlled. This past weekend, I finally pulled the books out to look through them.

I had completely forgotten about this picture, taken when I was 9 years old and holding the only puppy we ever owned. He didn't stay long. My younger sister and I loved him dearly, but we were clueless about potty training. Our efforts consisted mainly in screaming, "Oh, no!" when we noticed him peeing on the floor and then rushing him too-late out the door. My parents were both working and didn't have time to deal with the mess, so they disentangled the puppy from my sister's and my grasping clutches and "gave him away." Although we did go on to own other dogs over the years, they were always grown and fully potty-trained when we brought them home.

Looking at my happy face in that picture reminds me how much I loved that little dog and makes me wonder if some small part of me hasn't been waiting all these years for a chance to make up for what my young mind considered my failure to save him.

Baby Lupine is 2 months old and, ahem, definitely not potty-trained . . . buy my children needn't worry. Lupine's here to stay.



Dinner last night: tuna casserole

Exactly one year ago:

Pitter Pat

Rocky Waters

When my eldest daughter was 11, I noticed several girls from her soccer team were wearing Ugg tall boots. I tried not to judge, but found myself feeling a little, well, judgmental toward the girls' mothers. While Ugg boots are warm and perfectly acceptable footwear—especially for Alaskans trudging through winter—they also are very expensive and, let's face it, a status symbol. I couldn't help but think critically of the moms who were slipping their young daughters' feet into a pair of $200 boots.

Karma bites hard. At the beginning of this school year, my 8th grader begged me for a pair of Ugg boots. She had prepared a list of reasons why she needed them, including warmth, versatility, and comfort—but I knew her main motivation for owning a pair was that everyone else was wearing them. I'm not going to elaborate further, other than to say that she was near tears and desperate to fit in.

I almost caved.

Then I put on my best poker face and said, NO. I told her that I thought they were ugly, that I abhor peer pressure, and that I refuse to pay that much money for her still-growing feet. I also brought up the fact that she possessed exactly $200—a sum of money she had been saving from Christmas gifts, birthday cards, and babysitting jobs. If she really wanted a pair of Uggs, she would have to buy them herself.

She thought long and hard about whether she wanted to blow all of her hard-earned cash on one pair of boots. She finally decided to use her own money.

I have to admit that she's been mostly pleased with her decision. She wears the boots often and takes good care of them. I do believe that she appreciates them much more than if I would have purchased them for her. I still struggle, though, with the giving in to peer pressure and the coveting of status symbols.

My daughter recently turned 14, and will enter high school in the fall. I hope that I and my generically-clad feet can help my firstborn navigate the sometimes treacherous journey through teenage fashion.



Dinner last night: halibut tacos

Exactly one year ago:

Wrestling with My Bias