Good Moms

“Good moms let their kids do what they want.”

My son actually said those words to me a couple of weeks ago. He is 14 and was smirking and this was at the end of our argument about how much hair he should have cut, and yes, I responded with a raised eyebrow and an, “Um, no.” But it did make me think.

Am I a good mom? Or a control-freak/overbearing/my-way-or-the-highway mom?

Don’t answer that.

When they’re babies and toddlers, we make their decisions for them. We take them for their first haircut not because they tell us it’s time but because we want to get rid of the baby mullet. The clothes that are in their closet are clothes that we like. Until they’re old enough to chime in while shopping, the decisions are ours.

And I’ll sheepishly admit that even when they started forming opinions and voicing them, I was not the laid-back good mom who let them pick out their own clothes or shoes or haircuts. If they happened to choose something I also loved, great! Let’s buy it! But you want the black tennis shoes with lights that flash and a squeaker that yelps with every step? You’ll have to wait until you have your own money… and a job… and pay your own rent.

So as your kids get older, you slowly realize that your opinion becomes less influential. Clothes that you hold up in stores with an expectant smile are met with a scowl. They hold up shoes they just have to have and you can’t hide the big fat scowl forming on your face. I suppose a good mom would let them choose everything they want and buy it with a smile and then let them dress their little selves in whatever get-up they decide on… but I just wasn’t that mom.

I still to this day can’t help picking up precious little smocked jon-jons in stores… and my son is almost 6 feet tall. No, I’m not in complete denial, looking for one that might fit his teenage-boy-frame – but I am a sentimental sap. I miss those days when I was in complete control! And yes, he rolls his eyes at the sweet little outfits and heads straight for the athletic wear.

And that’s where we compromise. At 14, he’s forming his opinions along with his identity. He’s not my malleable little toddler anymore – he’s, like, a real life almost-adult! And I like him an awful lot. He’s pretty laid-back… much more so than I was at his age, so I’ve got to give him credit for that. I love who he is and if that means letting it go when he wants to grow his hair out for soccer season so he can wear a headband or a man bun or a ponytail… Lord help his mama, she’ll be okay.

We fought for two weeks about that looming haircut. He dug in his heels and went up against the most stubborn member of our family – his mama. I pulled out all the stops – leaving out old pictures of sweet hairstyles from days gone by and threatening to cut it in his sleep (no, I would never). He texted me memes of athletes that he only could have found by googling “crazy hair.” And we finally settled on a trim. But I’m pretttttttttty sure his barber, a guy who can’t be much older than him, has conspired with him and just brushes his hair around a little before sending him back out to me with the bill.

And I’m okay with it.

They’re going to like what they like. I’ve tried to fight it but have finally surrendered to shelling out for tennis shoes I can’t stand, shorts in the middle of winter because pants will just never get worn, and “haircuts” that look no different from the hair he had walking in. Because I’m a good mom… Or so I’ve heard.