Okay, so. Yesterday I took Miss A shopping for a Prom Dress. Her FIRST Prom Dress, to be exact. I was excited. I couldn’t WAIT to see Miss A step out of the dressing room wearing the PERFECT Prom Dress with her face all aglow looking like a Pretty, Pretty Princess.
THEN her Stepmother stepped in. Oh, y’all. Shit went downhill FAST after that.
It all started innocently enough. I tweeted about Prom Dress shopping with my sweet girl. My Twiter is hooked to my FB page. I saw a few minutes later that I had comments on my post. I flipped over to read them only to find that Miss A’s Stepmom had commented about what I was to buy. “No strapless dresses please” “Also no spaghetti straps. Have you ever seen out child dance without abandon (yes WITHOUT) she’ll have a wardrobe malfunction before you know it”.
I’m standing in the store, eyeballs deep in strapless or spaghetti strapped gowns, staring at my phone in disbelief. I laughed it off and responded sarcastically “Yeah.. THAT’S not an impossible task or anything” and “They make tape for that”. Then I continued shopping. I, honestly, was more concerned with fit and hemlines than strapless. Especially since Miss A just spent last Saturday in a STRAPLESS gown that her STEPMOTHER had chosen for a beauty pageant she participated in. I continued shopping. I was spending MY money after all.
Then Miss A’s phone rang. It was her Dad calling on behalf of her Stepmother to tell her that she’d better come home with a dress THEY considered appropriate or she would NOT be going to Prom. Period.
We were standing in the middle of the store and my child was in tears while her Dad demanded to know why she “sounded funny”.
I was livid. I immediately go find TWH and hiss “You will not BELIEVE this shit” as I shake and fume. TWH, reads the texts and FB posts, and listens to me rant then responds with a simple truth “Babe, there’s no point spending the money on a dress if it’s just going to hang in a closet. While I agree it’s stupid and you’re right, it’s YOUR money you should be allowed to get Miss A what she wants, you’re just going to have to play along”.
He was right. That didn’t make things easier. I was still pissed as hell about the whole thing.
These people had taken something that should have been fun and special and made it a chore. They cast a black cloud over the rest of our shopping. I hated having to go into stores and lay out someone else’s ground rules.
I did it. I rolled my eyes and sighed heavily, but I did it.
And we found a dress that Miss A loves. She lit up when she saw herself in it and I did the Mom thing and cried.
Next year, Miss A will be 18 when we dress shop. I will buy a dress again next year.
I will shop under MY OWN rules.
18 is freedom for more than just Miss A. It’s a kind of freedom for me too.
One more year.
Let the countdown begin…