Getting Ready

There is so much going on in the world. Getting ready could be all about Rita. But all I can think of at this precise moment in the time-space continuum is that my daughter listens to a group named "Wheezer" and my reaction to that makes me a geezer.

Yes, I am officially old. I really thought that old would look different. You know. Older. My husband, he's 56. That seems to me to qualify as old. Old. Old. But 43? Is that so very old? Guess it must be, since the naming of a group "Wheezer" seems to me so lame that I can't help rolling my eyes in classic old fogey parent fashion.

I don't have a great and crying need to stay young, to consider myself young. I don't dye my graying hair--and I have more graying than many at my stage in life. I'm not looking into Botox. My lines and I have a friendly relationship, and I would never take a needle to them. I'm not sure if I have wrinkles yet. I think of those as folds of skin, and the only skin folds I have are related to fat, not age.

So I thought I was reaching middle age somewhat gracefully, rather than being pulled into it kicking and screaming. Until I started listening to and reading about my daughter's musical interests. Wheezer. Wheezer? What kind of tweenie weenie would name his or her group Wheezer?

Maybe I'm turned off or annoyed because Wheezer rhymes with Geezer. Maybe I feel that it's a subtle slam against those of us older than, say, 40. Or maybe I feel terminally uncool and can't deal with that. Kinda thought I was above that. I've never wanted to be a cool parent. Good thing, since I've never been a cool parent.

Cool parent. Isn't that an oxymoron?

Anyway, I know my kids love me. I have no desire to bribe them into a more admiring relationship by being cool in their eyes. I yam what I yam. Nevertheless, over the last few years, as Annie has gotten into listening to music, I've enjoyed her choices.

That would mostly be because she's liked listening to whatever I've had in the CD player. And because she's always enjoyed listening to the oldies station. Until the damn thing was taken off the air. Suddenly, young love was in the air. I knew we had moved into a new era when her favorite song switched from "Bohemian Rhapsody" to Jesse McCartney's "Beautiful Soul".

But I thought I can handle this era. Stomach it, at any rate. For instance, the soundtrack to Wicked is great. Rent, too. Besides, I was listening to David Cassidy at 13, so how judgmental can I be?

But with this Wheezer business, I feel we've moved into a whole nuther realm. And I don't like it. Next thing you know, she'll be wanting to date. Boys, possibly. Even though I've made it abundantly clear that she will be allowed to date when she's 35. And married.

It's not that I'm overly protective or anything. Far from it. But if you think I'm going to let your 16 year old boy who has nothing on his mind but sex get anywhere within 2 miles of my little girl, well, I don't think so.

OK. So maybe it's not the Wheezer name, per se. Perhaps it's not what the name rhymes with. Last week she was afraid to let go of my hand in kindergarten. Yesterday, she was afraid of the dark. How can it be time for her to listen to Wheezer and songs about young love? Maybe Wheezer is shorthand for my little girl is growing up and I'm just not quite ready for that.

Until tomorrow,
Liz