Lily Hirsch’s debut essay.
When I first saw the movie Mean Girls in 2004, I laughed at Amy Poehler’s mom character, the mother of Regina George. Mrs. George is so pathetic and gross, I thought, attempting to join her daughter’s friend group, wearing what they wear, all so she can feel young again when she clearly isn’t. She’s old. So old. An uncool mom who thinks she’s cool. How hilarious.
Now that I’m a mom of a teen girl, age 15, a sophomore in high school, I’m no longer laughing. Honestly, it’s been an awkward chuckle for a while. Ha ha, I would never do that, would I? It’s the same way most people laugh at the basic bitch who loves pumpkin spice lattes when they know full well that those drinks are delicious.
When my daughter’s friends are over, chatting about people at school or discussing big goals for the future, I’ve felt the pull. I’ve listened in, inching closer and closer while pretending I’m busy nearby. I’ve felt the contagious inspiration and excitement inherent in being that age, when every day is full of possibility. Anything is possible. These girls could meet the love of their lives tomorrow or find their life-long passion. They could carve out a new path, discover they’re meant to live in New Zealand, discover they’re meant to fly. It would be fun to join that group. To be included in that journey when mine seems more set, big decisions over and in the past.
At a basic level, it would be fun to eat what they’re eating while still wearing what they’re wearing. All the pizza. No problem. Cute jeans and tight tops. Still no problem. And the skin. So smooth. The hair—so free of frizzy grey interlopers, those unruly antennae advertising that I’m in my 40s.
At the gym last week with my daughter, a friend said to me, “Wow, she’s so pretty. Is that how you used to look?” Painful but honest. The week before, a neighbor had said to both of us, “You could be twins.” Now it was my daughter’s turn to look pained. No teenager wants to be compared to a middle-aged woman. And I understand that. I really do. I look worse and worse while she is blossoming and embracing her power. And that’s how it should be. I’m happy for her and want her to enjoy her beauty with confidence.
It helps that I’ve never tried to be my daughter’s best friend or dubbed her a mini-me. I’ve known she has to have her own life and I can help by being her mom, a mom that allows her to learn to be independent, her own person. I’ve even made that point by underlining my uncoolness, delivering a well-placed pun meant to get that eye roll. When one of her friends started following me on Instagram, I made a joke of that, too, insisting I couldn’t live up to the pressure while secretly wishing I could. I posted a shot of myself as proof—me in sunglasses and a black leather coat that’s way too tight, the zip-up front no longer an option, more a cruel joke. I bought that coat when I was in my 20s and living in New York, not the suburbs, where I live now.
But what’s left for me?
To be a mom, I rearranged my life. At first, I had to concentrate on her with every fiber of my being, protect her at all cost. Now she needs to pull away, which she does—a little bit more each day. I have to learn how to focus elsewhere more and more. It feels like a trick. I got good at one thing and now the game has changed. I have to relearn how to exist on my own while being constantly reminded that that existence is in decline. There aren’t endless possibilities or pizza without digestive issues. She is what I used to look like and will never look like again. And no one will let me forget it.
Wouldn’t it be easier to abandon this reality? Wouldn’t it be easier to just live through my daughter like Regina George’s mom? Figuring my way through this new phase of life is hard. Mid-life is hard. Yes, even for women. Sure, the Mean Girl mom is the butt of the joke. But she sure looks like she’s having fun. She’s making pretty drinks and feeling good in her Juicy Couture. She’s dancing inappropriately while her daughter serenades the school, also inappropriately.
Don’t worry. I know what I need to do for my daughter and myself. I’m thinking about what my future will look like when she’s at college. I’ve suggested to my friends that we start a walking club or a glee club. A book club that gets together to eat and discuss new snacks at Trader Joe’s instead of books. I also just got a puppy. The puppy can stay with me when she doesn’t, I told my husband. I need that. And I can focus on the puppy when I know I shouldn’t focus on my daughter. Maybe I’ll ask the right amount of questions about her day, not too many, if I have to make sure the puppy doesn’t chew up the couch.
I won’t try to be the cool mom, like Amy Poehler’s mom character. But I get her. I get the appeal. I could easily be her. In my heart, I am her. And I empathize. It’s so hard to be a mom of a teenager. Even though she’s getting it wrong, the Mean Girls mom is not ridiculous. She’s not a monster. She’s a human in a hard situation who’s trying to adapt.
After a quick Google, I’m not surprised to learn that Tina Fey, who wrote Mean Girls, didn’t have kids when the movie came out. I like to think that, if she did, she would have been kinder to Mrs. George.
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