I have three crocs.

Not three pair. Just three. Two turquoise, one orange. The flip-flops, by the way, not the clogs. If that matters.

I used to have four. The orange one once had a fraternal twin. But I have a teenage daughter who finds it easier to grab my flip-flops on the way out the door than her own. She also finds it easier to grab my flip-flops than to put them back from whence she grabbed them. Thus, three crocs.

My stash of deodorant-bought-in-bulk-when-it-was-on-sale is depleted. My hair styling product bottles sit empty in my bottom drawer. And the title to the curling iron has evidently been permanently transferred because, hey–who do I need to look good for?

So far my closet has remained a thief-free zone. My daughter is 5’4″ and a size 0, and I’m….not, so that rules out the majority of the wardrobe pilfering. But even my accessories–my hats, my scarves, my groovy jewelry–are off her radar. I once offered to let her borrow something–anything–from my hallowed hangers. “Anything you want. I insist.” Her lip curled like I’d offered her a plate of Spam. “No thanks, mom.” I blocked the exit with my not-size-0 body. “Really,” I said, “I insist.”

That’s when she put on her we-need-to-talk face, the same face I put on back when she was nine and asked me whether the big guy in the red suit was real. “Mom,” she said with all the gentleness of a channel catfish, “you’re stuff just isn’t…cool.”

Not cool? Not COOL? “I’m the epitome of cool,” I told her. And then I made her go look up epitome, because we homeschooling moms have to take advantage of every opportunity.

I’m cool. I’m totally cool. What does a thirteen year-old know about cool anyway? I was so upset about the whole thing, I spilled my soy-premenopause shake all over my “I don’t do mornings” Minnie Mouse nightshirt while I was digging through my diaper bag to find my Neil Diamond cassette….

Tags: cool factor, crocs, motherhood, teenager