I won’t allow it.
In fact, this is the main reason I took a job at her school.
I can’t have a teenager in my house. I just can’t.
I don’t trust their kind. Mainly, the boy kind.
When the Spawn was born we wanted a baby. A cute cuddly baby.
Not a mean-spirited, angry, expensive teenager.
So we’ve made a decision.
She will stay forever young.
And she’s not allowed to move farther than a quarter mile from us (or else her mother will follow her).
There is a strict limit on the amount of immaturity our home can handle. And I’ve already personally reached the maximum amount.
So she has been sentenced to always being our little girl.
Except for the fact that she seems to be growing.
And not just taller.
And not just in the amount of sarcasm that flows from her pie hole (this seems to multiply by a factor of 12 each and every day… for the life of me I don’t know where she gets this).
But she’s also growing and changing in other ways. And places.
This really isn’t noticeable, except to her mother and me.
That’s why a family decision was made.
A decision that made my skin crawl.
A decision that made me question everything I believe to be true and sacred.
She has to wear a certain female undergarment that shall remain nameless (I just can’t say it…).
Her mom doesn’t want things popping out.
I don’t want boys noticing things popping out.
So we are all in agreement.
It was unanimous.
Except for the Evil Spawn’s vote. Since she voted “no”, I made a new motion that stated she doesn’t get a vote until her income is more than mine (sadly, in my line of work… this could be any day).
Now, she’s a rule follower and a good girl, so she generally does what she’s asked.
Except when she “forgets”.
And the other day at school, I noticed one of these times.
She was all decked out in an outfit that relied on lime green t-shirt as the major component.
This really drew your attention to her new growth spot(s).
And you might have guessed she “forgot” her new uncomfortable undergarment.
As a superintendent, I played the dress code card on her. As a dad, I played the put your coat on card.
I think we were both mortified. For different reasons.
She went back to eating her lunch and I went home to retrieve her extra layer of clothing protection.
Being a good father, I was going to deliver it to her class.
I put it in my pocket and swung by the office to let them know where I would be.
But I was stopped.
In the office.
In my tracks.
By 47 female staff members who explained (yelled) that this single act could force my daughter into at least 47 years of therapy and possibly result in an inability for her to have any sort of healthy relationship with boys.
But I was okay with that.
Until a discussion took place within this angry mob of mothers/employees about beating me to death with a stapler. The hate in their eyes was scary. Blood curdling scary.
Needless to say, I wasn’t allowed to go to her class.
Her mom was sent in my place.
I have a feeling this won’t be the last time she needs her mom instead of me.
I also have a feeling I have a lot to learn about teenage girls.
And no, she’s not allowed to read this blog until my death. Which at this rate could be any day.