A Picture Day Reckoning

Picture day Tuesday drove me to tears.

It was one of those mornings when I had a million things to do. But when my alarm went off, I didn’t move. Instead, I spent several minutes thinking about getting out of bed and reading a dozen comments about longstanding beef between two Real Housewives of Potomac cast members.

It’s not that my priorities are misplaced, but one of my toxic traits is clawing back “me time” at the worst moments, and picture day provided a window. Now everyone was rushing, my daughter was holding a book we couldn't read, and the stakes surrounding her day were as heated as her mood.

Since she was upset, everything was wrong. Her socks fit funny, her underwear was uncomfortable, and the bows for her hair? Wrong style, wrong size, and wrong color. I suppose my coup de grace was assuming her pastel dress should have pastel accessories—good thing I don't get paid for thinking!

I tried to collaborate, negotiate—whatever you want to call it—but she wasn't hearing it. She insisted on a red polka-dot bow, even though it was tattered, flimsy, and worst of all, didn't match. Somewhere between anger and defeat, she played her final card: She would not wear a bow at all, and I didn't try to change her mind.

The car ride to school was sad and unusually quiet. Not even the Spice Girls could lift the mood. When I looked back to check on my girls, I realized we'd left more than my daughter's bow at home. All I wanted was everyone to look their absolute best, but along the way I made my child feel smaller.

The feeling wasn't foreign.

Growing up, my mom made most of the decisions about my appearance—including my hair—which she kept in braids. She had fine, straight hair and I had thick, coily hair, so it was the simpler option for her. But it meant I missed those early opportunities to make decisions about my image. And if I'm completely honest, it established a rhythm where "convenience" took precedence over what I wanted.

I'm sure this behavior has absolutely nothing to do with my lifelong struggle to make decisions or trust my own voice—you know, Freud's theory and all. But I do believe that when it comes to children, what we say about them, they believe about themselves, in behavior and action.

I made the extra trip home and back to school to drop off the red polka-dot bow. I left it at the main office, so I didn't get the opportunity to apologize as I gave it to her—that came later.

But I hope she understood the message I was sending when she received it: That her opinion will always matter to me.