Young Mom, Old Mom
by Debbie McCarson

Times change. This is quite evident in the stands at a baseball game where I sit to watch my youngest son play. I am surrounded by moms who are here to watch their oldest sons play, which means they are all much younger than I am – some nearly two decades younger. A young mother sits in front of me, leaned over just slightly enough so that her shirt rides up to reveal a large and colorful butterfly tatoo emerging from her low cut jeans and out of the strip of lace that I believe must be part of the structure of her thong. I’ve heard of thongs, but can not understand them. "Why do they exist?" I once asked a young girl who was in front of me in line buying them during a shopping trip. "Aren’t they uncomfortable?" She explained that it was so she wouldn’t have panty lines.

Now there was something I understood. Panty lines. The timeless and universal fashion faux pas. When I was young, the panty line problem was solved with a garment marketed as Underalls -  pantyhose and panties all in one. But those were so tight and restrictive, wearing them was a high price to pay “to make me look like I’m not wearin’ nothin.’” It may have looked as though nothing was on underneath, but in fact, every ounce of flesh between the waist and the toe was imprisoned. They were a far cry from the thong, in which you practically are wearin’ nothin’. Perhaps these young girls are on to something with these thongs.  I notice that Young Mother in front of me, indeed, has no panty lines.  She also has  no "muffin top" a  term one of my younger co-workers recently introduced to me to describe the excess bulge that has found its way to my belly so that it can spill out over my belted jeans. 

Young Mother has long, silky black hair. This is not the kind of spectator mom I remember from my youth. Today they are referred to as “soccer moms” - or “hockey moms” – post  Sarah Palin. When I was young they were just called moms, and they were middle-aged, slightly chunky, had bad perms, and wore stretch pants and comfortable shoes. During football season, they always had a thermos full of something warm and a crocheted afghan (in team colors) that you could hide beneath when the winds were cutting through you like a knife. 

I look over to see if my husband sitting next to me notices the butterfly and the lacy thong. But come on. How could he not? I see that he’s doing his best to show some self-control. God bless him. How can I compete with that, I wonder. Although he has nearly mastered the art of not offending me with comments about my appearance, he once told me that he wished I would wear eye liner. “I wear eye liner every day, “ I told him. “I never leave the house without it.”  He doesn’t notice it because in my youth, I was instructed by my older sister, five-inch rollers in her hair, to wear my make-up “so that it highlights your features but no one knows you’re wearing it.” I wonder how I’m supposed to wear it now.

Another thing it took me a while to understand was the use of the word “product” when referring to hair gels and mousses. When once asked if I used “product” in my hair, I changed the subject so as not to appear ignorant. Finally, one day at the hair salon I asked my hair dresser - ultimate confidant, practical psychotherapist - what was meant by “product.” When she explained it, I realized she meant Dippety-Do.

Today the girls seem to be piercing and tatooing everything. I once had to be the “matron” of honor in a wedding in which the rest of the bridal party was under 21 years old and could show off pierced belly buttons very well on their flat, tanned stomachs. In contrast, my belly button seems to have taken on a distorted mind of its own. Piercing it and putting it on display would be an affront to society.

I decide that Young Mother probably has a very nice pierced belly button, and to prove my theory, I nonchalently move up a bit in the stands to see if I can get a peek. As I do so, her son gets up to bat. After two strikes, he slams the ball into left field and runs all the way to second base. The crowd is cheering and his coach is praising him. I notice that he quickly glances up to see if Young Mother has seen his achievement. She has, and she winks and nods before he focuses his attention once again on the game. The exchange between them takes only a second, but it is filled with all the love, depth, and understanding that can only exist between a mother and son, and  I am content to know that some things will never change.

Debbie McCarson has spent the last ten years teaching English classes and working as the business administrator at a local private school before starting her own company which offers professional writing services to small businesses and non-profit organizations.

Debbie lives in Barnsboro with her husband and five sons.

Having experienced the escapades of this gender override in her home for two decades, she thoroughly enjoys writing about issues relevant to women.

Debbie McCarson
Providence Path Professional Writing Services
(856) 491-3572
http://www.providencepath.com/