A Letter to the Mom of the Teenage Girl

Dear Mom of a Teenage Girl,

You don't know me, but I'm the woman who was trying very hard to avoid eye contact while we three - you, your daughter, and I - were standing in the aisle of WalMart. I was just there to grab a pair of cheap flip flops. You, it seems, were there to exhibit the patience of Job.

I wasn't judging you. Far from it! I saw you look at me sideways, face ashamed. If I'd known that it might be accepted, I'd have defended you - Mothers Unite and all that.

Your daughter is in eighth grade apparently. She has her graduation coming up where she'll leave middle school and venture into the world of high school. That's a scary, wonderful time. I heard the conversation while you tried to help her find a pair of shoes.

I tried not to get in your way, but you were sort of right in front of the flip flops. I walked an aisle or two away, hoping to give you space and then, I had to make a dash to your aisle.

I'm a little ashamed I walked away, truth be told.

Because the abuse being heaped on your head was more than any woman - any person - should bear.

For the record, you are not ruining your daughter's life because you suggested the brown sandals. You are not stupid because you thought the white ones would match her dress. You are not ugly because you were wearing Crocs. You are not an idiot because you thought the wide size might fit better. You're right, shoes can't make you look fat. You are also just as good as her friend's mom.

Yeah. I heard all that. I couldn't help it. Your daughter has a voice for the stage and the drama to match. Her sighs could be heard two aisles over, her sneers four.

And I know you know all this. I could tell by the way you kept your calm, kept your voice steady, and patiently offered another option.

I admired you for that. I'm not sure I could do it. I wish you hadn't looked so embarrassed. I wish you had realized I wasn't judging you. I wish there was something, anything I could have said.

But I know there wasn't.

Just know in a few years, you're going to be the first person she calls when she needs advice. In a few years, you're going to know everything and she'll wonder why she ever thought you didn't. In a few years, she'll ask you for help picking out shoes for her wedding and she'll listen and maybe laugh at how awful she was as a teen. In a few years, she'll hold up the shoes you buy for her baby and exclaim at their perfection.

You just have to get through this bit first.

Stay strong, stay patient, and I hope, really hope, you have someone with whom you can vent and maybe drink a glass of wine. After that shopping trip, you need it.