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During last July’s 5.8 earthquake, 3-year-old Bronwyn told her 1-year-old sister, “We’re going for a wiggle.” READ MORE
Single Parenthood
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My oldest daughter loves Hilary Duff. You know, “Lizzie McGuire?” “The Cinderella Story?” Posters, CDs, books, magazines…it’s Hilary-mania at our house. My 11-year-old even dreams of meeting her one day. She thinks they are soulmates. “Mom, we have the same birthday!” I’m thrilled my daughter’s idol is another young girl, who, at the moment, is pretty wholesome. Better Hilary than Britney. Positive female role models inspire young girls. In my day, there were Charlie’s Angels. But there wasn’t a clear-cut career path for gun-slinging divas in stilettos chasing down bad guys, and the infatuation didn’t stick. So when the ex bought my daughter two tickets to the Hilary Duff concert at the Pond, I was elated for her. Until I found out his plan was to drop her and a friend off, by themselves, with no adult supervision. Come again? Call me overprotective, but I don’t think a concert is a place for two pre-teens to be wandering around alone, even with the false security of a cell phone. I had no choice but to buy my own ticket and become their guardian angel for the night. My daughter saw it differently. “Don’t you trust me, mom?” Of course I do. I just don’t trust the thousands of other Hilary fans I DON’T know. While I understand my maturing daughter’s need to spread her wings, a concert isn’t a safe place to do it, despite being staged at a Disney-esque property. Yes, I was the bad guy. But I hatched a brilliant idea that would redeem me: Perhaps I could make my daughter’s ultimate dream of meeting Hilary come true by using my press credentials to secure a backstage pass. “Cool, mom!” I called in every marker I had, even the president of Disney Parks and Resorts who I interviewed awhile back. My reputation as a mother, the all-time miracle worker, was on the line. But no go. Duff’s handlers have erected a fortress around her. She’s virtually inaccessible to the media. Sadly, my daughter didn’t get to meet her idol. But we enjoyed the concert together anyway, in a darkened arena filled with glow sticks and screaming young girls flanked by other protective parents. “Hil-ar-ee, Hil-ar-ee!” her adoring, young fans chanted. A mom next to me quipped, “Man, you’d think this was the Beatles or something!” As I watched my daughter parrot almost every word to every song about teenage angst, I realized with a mixture of pride and sadness that my little girl is growing up. Her days of teddy bears and lullabies are gone. Now come the concerts, slumber parties, secret pacts with friends and dare I say…BOYS! That night, I think I grew bigger in her eyes, too. After the concert, she confessed, “I’m glad you came, mom. I think I would have been scared to be here alone.” I wish I could have frozen that moment in time. When little girls stay little girls, and mothers feel like heroes. Senior Writer Lynn Armitage has joined the Hilary Duff Fan Club. |
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