Confessions of a closeted 14 year old girl

So, sharing my child with her other parent is one big learning experience after another. A lesson in patience here, logic and reasoning there, and then there are times when I am just left confused as to why anyone would think certain things he does are a good idea.

Example: Letting a 5 year old watch High School Musical, Hannah Montana, Sonny With a Chance, or Grease.

Now, some of the above, such as Grease, may be a classic that we all remember singing along to growing up, however, the thing to emphasize here is that when I watched Grease, I was old to know what a virgin is, and get that they were saying Sandra D is a nerd for not going "to bed till she's legally wed", and also stable enough in my own opinions to think that was rather callous of them to sing about in public when the poor girl needed a friend. It was funny though, and catchy and overall a good movie. But. Not coming out of my sweet little girls mouth. Have you ever watched the faces of people in the grocery store when they are ogling at the fact your five year old is dancing around singing "Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee, lousy with virginity, Won't go to bed till I'm legally wed, I can't, I'm Sandra Dee, Watch it, hey, I'm Doris Day, I was not brought up that way..." while she swoons over the Robert Pattinson display? It really makes people question your parenting ability at times. Actually, screw other people, it makes me question it too. It is just a little nerve-crawling, teeth-grinding inducingingly creepy to hear out of her mouth.

Let's move on to the Disney pop princesses now shall we? Now, originally, I was tolerant of Hannah Montana. The content was, while being developmentally WAY older than five years old, decent for the most part. The thing I have a problem with is the whole sending messages to my beautiful, unique little girl about how she should look and act to fit in. Because that is just bull shit. (That is also a blog topic for another time. One I do believe I have touched on in the past, here. ) The thing that really annoys me now is that they all are little rock stars in the making. With those crappy, pop, catchy songs that get stuck in my head so damn easily. Most of them most likely didn't write their own songs, probably don't know how to play the bass guitar they are clutching in that music video, and by the way, thanks for teaching a new way to waggle your hips to my tiny little dancer. (I am comforted by the fact that Emily will also croon along with Dean Martin, wail along with the Beatles, and can rock along with Ani DiFranco too)

But I have a confession to make. I secretly enjoy some of it. *gasp*. Not because I think it is GOOD, people, but because it is so easy to dance all sloppy like around my living room to. Emily and I have dance-time when we are too amped up or sad or angry or frustrated, where we turn off the lights and dance. For someone who isn't a dancer or a singer, some of this crap is really easy to move to. In private. NEVER in public. And, while I am being honest and confessing, I, against my will, get sucked into those evil little shows. It dawned on me last night as Emily and I were watching Wizards of Waverly Place (on YouTube, helping people too cheap or totally against paying for cable still get indoctrinated with the media's subtle brainwashing every day!) that I was laughing at the show! Granted, it was only a small chuckle, but it was enough to make it impossible to ignore that I was sucked into these adolescent plot lines and actually did want Sonny and Chad to FINALLY admit they like each other.

I'M DOOMED! There must be help for people like me somewhere, right? I mean, what if I can't shake it? What if I find myself late at night watching entire SEASONS of this crap, by myself? I will buy those teeny bopper magazines with the pictures of the latest, trendiest stars, and cut out pictures of my, I mean EMILY'S, favorite ones. I will purchase all of their cheaply produced albums, put them all on my ipod to bop along to everywhere I go, they will replace the Elliot Smith, the Patsy Cline, and the Weezer. (NOOoooo! Not the Weezer!) Will I end up as one of those Twilight Mom's that stormed the set of the latest greatest teen obsession to the extremity that they had to beef up on security to keep them away? I can see it now. I will just pop into Starbucks after dropping Em off at school for the day to get my non-fat no foam vanilla latte, and then on the sly, while everyone else thinks I am at a meeting, I will creep over to the super secret filming location where I meet up with my other crazed, stuck-in-their-adolesence moms. Together, in our skinny jeans and puffy jackets with fur around the collar, that we 'borrowed' out of our daughter's closets, we will stalk the stars of the show and sip latte's until we absolutely have to peel ourselves away to go pick up our children. But not before changing into our business suits and mussing our hair just enough to look like we have been stuck in a board room reviewing next year's budget. (Numbers always make my eyes glaze over and my brain go numb.) Emily will have no idea until she goes to retrieve that puffy jacket for a night out with her friends and finds the map to the set in the pocket and the magazine cut out of the hunky teenage star that will be half my age (worn at the edges and creased from gazing at it for hours on end, of course).

I can't let this happen to me! I have to get back to my bitter, "pop-culture is lame" self. I mean, I OWN SKINNY JEANS ALREADY! That is just another step closer. I must find some sort of outpatient recovery program that will prescribe hours of listening to the Pixies and Ramones, we will watch avant-garde films like Tank Girl, and sing rebellious, angry girl music around the camp fire. It may cost me the equivalent of four of those low budget bubble gum pop films, but it will be worth it in the end.

I fully intend to do this. Right after Vanessa leaves town. We have plans to see New Moon this weekend...

Don't judge. Or judge, but still LOoooOOOVe me despite my weaknesses.