It’s Our Prerogative… by Elizabeth Allen

What mother of a teenage daughter doesn’t like to be addressed as “her older sister”? Granted, the comment is usually delivered by some sleazy salesman as he attempts to close a sale or a just-pubescent waiter fishing for a larger tip, but still, it feels nice.


I find the older I get, the less selective I’ve become regarding the source of the compliments. I will gladly allow my morale to be boosted and my ego stroked by just about anyone from any walk of life or gender – with the possible exception of homeless people (although there was that one guy who looked remarkably like a scruffy Gerard Butler as he gulped his Mad Dog…)

The fact is, younger mothers probably get mistaken for their kids’ sisters all the time and take the faux pas for granted, while we more seasoned moms recognize that very narrow window and struggle to squeeze through for as long as possible.

CUE: hair color, face lifts, Botox, anti-wrinkling cream, or any one of a plethora of youth-mimicking devices or applications. Okay, I’ve only succumbed to coloring over my gray but I hail from a family of women who were no strangers to cosmetic surgery. That doesn’t mean I intend to follow their footsteps, in fact, I don’t want a face so tight you could bounce a dime off of. (Joan Rivers and Donatella Versace come to mind…ugh!) It would be fun though to hear some young man whisper under his breath “what a cougar” at me and not directed at a ’67 Mercury.

I’m not trying to look as young as my daughter; if I want to feel 16 again I’ll wait for senility to kick in. And for the most part, I’m pretty okay with the aging process. I had my fun before becoming a mother and contrary to Mr. Shaw’s quote, I did not waste my youth. All things considered, I don’t exactly have one foot in the grave, but who says we have to look like it?

                                      I’ll keep flirting until someone says, “Is there something in your eye?”

For the Sake of the Kids…Really? - by Elizabeth Allen

How many unhappily married couples with children have you heard recite the overcooked excuse “We’re staying together for the sake of the kids”? How many of you are saying that even now in your current lives? Let’s take that one step further – do you really believe that staying in a toxic, loveless, dysfunctional relationship is actually healthier for your child than to forge ahead barefooted over burning coals (from which your soles will heal) toward something or someone who will be infinitely better? And what if forging ahead means being a single parent?


“I can’t do it – I need his help with the kids. It’s just not worth the hassle.”

“My parents fought all the time, in fact I’m sure they hated each other. But I turned out all right. I believe it’s more important for my child to have a mother and a father together than for me to be happy.”

“My kids adore their father. They’d hate me if I left him and I couldn’t bear that. At this point in my life, what difference would it make? Besides, who’d want me now?”

“My kids deserve a mother and a father. Moreover, what gives me the right to be selfish? Their needs are more important.”

"We've been together too long. Why rock the boat now?"

“I can’t be alone. I’d rather be in a bad marriage than none at all. At least it’s familiar. After all is said and done, I know what to expect anyway.”

And so on and so on…

My parents stayed together for our sake – the magic number being twelve. They stuck it out until I, the youngest, turned 12 and then went their separate ways. So was it better that two people who battled daily with the ferociousness of Siamese fighting fish lived in the same house and kept up appearances? Gee, let’s see. I don’t recall feeling the love from them as much as anger, grief and desperation. I picked up some vicious verbal strategies when it comes to arguing which would have served me well had I become a lawyer. I observed how two people who have no respect for each other act and I learned how the two most important adults in my young life pretended to be something they weren’t. And I learned to see through the pretense.

Kids know. I don’t care if they’re six or sixteen, boy or girl, functional or autistic – they know when their parents are faking it and when their mother is unhappy. They want their parents to be happy, even if it means living apart. Is it really selfish to extricate yourself from a harmful relationship? I say no. It’s selfish to stay.

Why are we willing to sacrifice our very lives - step in front of a charging bear if need be – to protect our children? But when it comes to breaking up the family which may, in greater likelihood actually fix it, we stall. It’s that hesitation, that lapse in gumption that could mean the difference between evolving into a well-adjusted person who witnessed their mother make tough courageous choices and persevere or evolving into a clone who ends up in and settles for the familiar no matter how bad it is.

For the sake of the kids? Really?

Go ahead and rock the boat. Tip the freaking thing over if need be. Your kids will swim and be stronger for it.

Gay Used To Mean “Happy” – by Elizabeth Allen

Where do you stand on the subject of homosexuality when it comes to your kids? I suppose that mostly depends on where you stand on the subject of sexuality, yet misconceptions and prejudice still paint the concept for some as a “dark condition of our times.” There are many factors that affect how any given individual parent thinks of homosexuality and frequently those are based on religion, their upbringing, or a repressive recipe of both. There have been some who were raised by hippies or free-thinkers, but they probably make up a very small minority.


My first exposure to the “lighter side” came in 1966 when my parents took me and my brother to the movies to see West Side Story. While my father adored anything conducted by Leonard Bernstein, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat when the Jets and the Sharks started to jeté through the streets of Manhattan during the overture. “Oh Jeez, fags,” squeezed through his lips with Archie Bunker-ish irritation and he promptly left the theatre. My seven-year-old mind didn’t understand what he meant by “fags”; all I knew was I was hooked. These boys could dance and I didn’t care what they were!

I realized many years later that my father was, in fact, homophobic. Ironically, at the age of 12, my very first crush was on a young man who knew he was gay. Certainly the rejection of my love was not as devastating as Brokeback at such a tender age, but I was undeniably drawn to his humor, sensitivity, panache and unquestionable feminine edge. By 13, I was a teenage fag-hag.

My parents – who had me in their late thirties – never sat me down and explained the birds and the bees or the bees and the bees. I’m not sure whose assignment is was to enlighten me or who dropped the ball, but I figured things out on my own eventually through many trials and even more errors. Suffice to say, I will not leave my daughter’s sexual education to chance. She has all the information now—well, as much as she really needs—and short of application and practice, she will make healthy, informed decisions when she’s ready to be physically close to someone.

Do I care if she’s drawn to a woman versus a man? No, not really. Certainly those old tapes still spin in my head that she should only consider conventional pairing, but what really matters most to me is her happiness. Regardless of gender, I only care that the object of her affections is a stable, loving, gentle and kind person who gives her as much joy as she gives them.

Of course, if the object of her desires just happens to be a med student, it couldn’t hurt…

Do as I Say, Not as I Do…uh…Did - by Elizabeth Allen

Hypocrite: a person who pretends to have virtues, moral or religious beliefs, principles, etc., that he or she does not actually possess, especially a person whose actions belie stated beliefs.


I keep finding these little tiny glitches in the system of “parenthood later”. One of them has to do with budding behaviors, attitudes and episodes my 16 year old exhibits that are fairly tantamount to me when I was 16. Now, that said, there are some major differences between the two of us as sweet-sixteeners, not the least of which is 36 years. Am I wrong in thinking parents with a narrower age difference can work these glitches out with more efficiency? Are their behaviors better emulated because they didn’t have the extra time to make more mistakes?

It was a different time and different circumstances. I hit upon 16 in 1975, the product of enormous dysfunction with a wild streak that even Paris Hilton would envy. I had a fake id and was drinking alcohol with friends. I smoked pot (and yes, I inhaled). I was sexually active because I needed love and if a boy wanted me that way, that meant I must be loveable. I ran away twice before the very real threat of juvy inspired me to cool my jets until I could legally run away once and for all at 18. I had an argument with my mother during a drive from Tampa to Atlanta and threw her out of the car somewhere near Valdosta. I didn’t actually throw her from a moving vehicle; just forced her out physically and watched her expression of disbelief in the rearview mirror as I called her bluff by actually driving away. I didn’t go back.

Not a very nice kid. Yeah, well. I’m not proud of that last stunt but over time I did develop skills which have made me who I am today. And I’m very proud of how I turned out. You can develop some pretty nice muscles when you pull yourself up from rock bottom on your own.

On to my daughter. Let me say right up front that she is not a drug-using, sexually active, ruthless chip off the old block. Quite the contrary. She knows all about drugs and has no desire to indulge (but if she did and/or her friends entice her, we talk about it honestly and I would insist they partake within the safe confines of our home…and save me a hit). She was not bounced on the knees of two parents who hated each other, but rather, witnesses daily a mom and dad who are nuts in love. And who love her more than air. That alone gives her value and confidence; no gap that she needs to fill artificially with drugs, sex or anger. She hasn’t thrown me out of the car yet, but she still has her learner’s permit…

So all things considered, she’s really a great kid. The similarities I speak of are mostly an attitude imbalance. She’s tough on me; she yells a lot and she has virtually no patience. In short, I exasperate her. Exactly how I treated my mom. It doesn’t help that she’s hormonal and I’m premenopausal. But while I don’t see her following in my unpleasant footsteps on the road to her evolution, I have to anticipate there may be some detours I didn’t expect. And when those deviations pop up, how do I, in good conscience, tell her “no”? I guess, like any parent, regardless of my unsavory, reckless and fairly debauched youth, I’ll cross those bridges when I come to them.

I just hope this particular fruit fell way far from the tree.