Now that I have a 7-year-old daughter, certain words and objects I’ve been using for years have suddenly become grounds for complete and utter humiliation, translating into serious preteen attitude.
How dare I bring Savannah a sippy cup of juice in front of all her friends? DUH, Mom. Once you graduate first grade, lids with spouts are laughable. And when I hollered out the front door that she only had five more minutes till bathtime, I got the dagger eyes as she sped off on her bike. Later, she explained in her world-weary tone that only BABIES take baths. Seven-year-olds shower, or at least pretend to. Oh, and vitamins! How dare I remind Sav to take hers in front of her BFF?! Even those yummy gummy ones are now decidedly uncool.
I have so much to learn. I take comfort in the fact that my parents humiliated me on a daily basis. Like when my dad used to pull up outside the mall to pick us up in his boat-sized white El Camino, jumping up and down and waving with a big goofy grin, for the sole purpose of embarrassing us. I lived through it, and so will Sav.