Tips for the Hip--and Their Kids

It’s Mother’s Day and I certainly hope you plan to do something about it Mister (or Miss), and not just laze around the house reading the funny papers. At least go out and get some fresh air. Because the only gift your mother really wants is a healthy child. That and for you to be happy.

Mom also wants you to be the best at whatever you do, which shouldn’t really be too difficult, should it? Especially if you don’t set the bar too high. I happen to be the best at lazing around the house and ruining my eyes by reading in a bad light. And I’m second runner-up at daydreaming, being lost in a dream world and forgetting my head if it weren’t attached.

The other day I was pursuing several of these career choices simultaneously in one of those giant chain bookstore-cafes so permeated with the smell of Kenyan roast they seem bent on linking reading with caffeine addiction, when I stumbled onto the photo book “Daughters and Mothers” by Lauren Cowen and Jayne Wexler. I came across a shot of hip ‘60s designer Betsey Johnson and her daughter Lulu, who was quoted to the effect that she originally had winced at some of her mom’s fashion excesses.

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“Remember when I came home from school and you had dyed your hair orange?” Lulu had said. “You looked like a carrot.”

I could identify. You see, I had a hip mom back when the word hip was hip. I grew up in suburbia, but my mother inhabited a different world, a Bohemia of her own devising. My mother wore jeans, back when they used to be called “dungarees.” (Yes, I am that old and not the insolent young whippersnapper some of you letter-writing readers accuse me of being.)

Worse than that, she wore tights, back before the invention of pantyhose, when they came in red, green or royal blue and were meant for skiers or ice skaters, not moms. I was never quite sure what she would be wearing when she came to pick me up from school--a poncho? a backless cocktail dress?--but I could count on it to upset me.

I longed for a TV mom in a freshly pressed shirtwaist with a can of Lemon Pledge in her hand, who wouldn’t let me eat in my room. Instead, I had a mom who went barefoot in the summer, ran out in her robe to help the neighbors dig their car out of the snow in the winter, and let my brother keep turtles in the bathtub.

Not to mention her bad language! Donna Reed would never have said those things. Of course, Donna Reed would never have given me a straight answer to my really important questions about life, either.

These days, when I forget to curb a mild profanity (OK, say a really, really bad word) in front of a friend’s child and watch his or her eyes grow round with horror, I think of my mom. She (and, of course, Betsey Johnson) may have been the vanguard of a new breed. My mother was always ahead of her time. I suspect there are a lot of hip moms out there today, and they could probably use some help.

As a hip-mom survivor, I’d like to offer my advice to both ends of the gene pool. There is hope, even if your mom has multiple piercings and is dating the drummer in a Silver Lake garage band. And, hip moms, even if you catch your 8-year-old-daughter under the covers with a flashlight and a purloined copy of “The Rules,” don’t despair.

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First of all, let’s look at the dress code. Compromise is the key. If your mom is wearing socks that don’t go with her blouse, don’t stare at her feet and make a sniffing noise in the back of your throat. Tolerate them and when you go home, simply throw them out and blame the dryer elves.

If, on the other hand, mom insists on taking you to school in an outfit that shows more cleavage than Madonna at the Oscars, it’s time for drastic action. Ask her to let you out a block away because you “really need the exercise.” Moms aren’t that thick, you know. Eventually she’ll get the point.

And hip moms, though you may not feel that way, you are allowed to have your own taste in clothing--within limits. You don’t have to stick to the Talbot’s catalog. But if you find yourself borrowing your daughter’s plastic jewelry, you’re still living in Barbie’s Dream House. Move out and start dressing more age-appropriately. Who knows? You might even attract a boyfriend with a day job.

Then there’s the language issue. Swearing is never ladylike. But, kids, if something bad happens unexpectedly, like your reminding mom on the way to school that today was the day she agreed to bring homemade cupcakes for the entire class, a brief outburst of profanity is only to be expected. It is not the cue to repeat over and over in a loud singsong, “Mom said the F-word, Mom said the F-word.”

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Etiquette becomes more complicated when boys are involved. If you have a single mom who might be dating, it is not your place to tell her that he won’t respect her if she goes out to the car or motorcycle when he honks and doesn’t make him come to the door to meet you. Experience is the best teacher.

Food is another trouble zone. Hip moms tend to be adventurous chefs, but no child can survive on Julia Child alone. My childhood was Wonder Bread-deprived, and as a consequence, even now a bologna-and-lettuce sandwich on white bread with mayo gives me an illicit thrill. So, hip moms, serve couscous if you must, but don’t issue an all-out ban on junk food unless you want to raise a junk-food junkie.

Remember, with patience, love, and understanding, hip moms and their kids can survive childhood and even adolescence (but not without separate phone lines).

And it’s amazing, once you reach the ripe old age of 21, how much more intelligent your mom becomes. Plus, by that time, all those too-trendy articles of clothing that you groaned at on your mom will have gone out of style and come back in again. If you and your hip mom have stayed friends, she might even let you borrow them.