"You'll see."

I'm not one of those people whose favorite time of life was high school.

Yes, there are those people. I've met them. At forty, they are still able to make me feel fundamentally certain that I am not part of the Popular Crowd.

Early in high school, I was the bespectacled, quiet, geeky kid who did better than most people on most tests and didn't get into any trouble. Later in high school, I was the contact-wearing, quiet, geeky kid who did better than most people on most tests and didn't get into any trouble.

I had friends, but they were a small circle.

Okay, "they" were one person. "They" were my best and dearest friend, who has gotten me through every heartbreak and triumph of the last thirty years. She was the kind of bubbly, out-going, hilarious, hip, and small-enough-to-be-carried-around-by-joking-boys girl that I wanted to be. She had a million friends. By extension, because she and I were dubbed Siamee I and Siamee II since we were never apart, I had a million friends-ish. "Ish" because while I was went to most of the parties, I knew that had it not been for her, I would have been welcome at none.

High school wasn't awful. I wasn't tortured or a loner or a screw-up. I was captain of this and editor of that and had big parts in all the school plays. (Perhaps I can act; perhaps it's just that my mother is a professional seamstress who will donate untold hours of sewing to her daughter's high school drama club if they are putting on Pride and Prejudice--which contains five daughters, a friend, and two mothers, all of whom appear in five acts and need different dresses in each--and they have a $100 budget for costumes.) I had great days--days when my brush curling iron produced perfect wings in my hair, and I rocked two layered pairs of different colored socks and three giant mis-matched hoop earrings (obviously only my left ear was double-pierced). And I had terrible days--days when I described my favorite animal in two words in creative writing class ("huge and graceful," as whales are) and everyone laughed at me when we had to read the words aloud after being told that they described how we secretly saw ourselves.

High school wasn't awful. But it wasn't the best time of my life either.

There were long afternoons lying drowsily on the bottle-green carpet in my attic bedroom, chin resting on my fists, listening to Madonna's "Crazy for You" over and over and thinking despairingly of The Boy in art class who never showed interest in me.

There were countless moments that seemed to me to prove that I lived on the fringes of the high school world. The Ecology Club camp-out where I had to sleep in an Army Surplus sleeping bag instead of a North Face one, and I was the only camper in our squirrel's nest platform not to sneak out--or even to be invited to sneak out--to drink rum and cokes in the woods...the Junior Prom for which I had no date...the less tangible but no less certain sense that I was not "in," discernible in all those subtle-but-powerful ways that fifteen-year-olds have of constantly, inexorably reinforcing the pecking order.

The ache and the longing of teenage-hood surrounded me. I wanted to be more, to feel different. To feel beloved. Witty. Pretty. Confident.

In short, I was as insecure as everyone else, only without the mask of real Izod shirts and orange base makeup precisely following my jawline to suggest smug confidence.

Of course, there were suggestions that life promised more. Such as the day in the middle of sixth period when I ran into Kirk in the otherwise silent hall, and this macho, velvet-voiced star of the gospel choir stopped me dead in my tracks by unabashedly looking me up and down and then asking, "Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No," I managed to whisper back, heart pounding, half dreading whatever was coming next.

He gave his head a short, sorrowful shake. "Man," he breathed, turning the word into a swear, "the white boys at Decatur sure are stupid."

And then he kept walking, surely unaware how completely stunned I was by the sentence that had burst out of him. Unaware that no one, ever, had given me a compliment so raw and genuine as that. Both of us ignorant of the fact that twenty-five years later, I would remember that moment as if it had happened yesterday, and that his appraisal was somehow profound in its ability to begin a shift in my sense of self.

Moments such as that--moments when we can pinpoint a sea-change--are rare, indeed. It is stunning thus to see ourselves through another's eyes and suddenly feel the power of honesty, instead of all the uncertainty and cliques and media-induced self-deprecation and the rest of the baggage that we learn to carry around with us from a very early age. With a flash of clarity, we see that being Being Popular is not as satisfying as knowing ourselves for whom we truly are. And even if we do not manage to embrace this as a permanent truth, even if we drop into the self-doubt and longing and angst of being sixteen again (which we will, probably at 16 and 26 and 36 and beyond), those moments are etched indelibly within us and gently help to propel us forward through dark days.

It must be said, however, that these moments are not the sum total of high school. In fact, they are in many ways the antithesis of high school. Their unexpected flash may glow fleetingly, occasionally, during those years, but hardly in a sufficient sum to make high school the best of one's days.

I don't care how Popular you were. There is far too much worry...about zits and brand names and who saw you talking to whom during the halftime show and who would give you a ride home and whether your mom was the only one uncool enough to insist you get home at midnight from the seniors' graduation party when you were a junior and a thousand other things...to make high school the best of life.

And yet, despite the lack of confidence and the longing and the feeling of being not-quite-whole without knowing why, high school--even high school boys, who have a notoriously bad rap for lack of emotional maturity--can provide moments that are breath-taking in their ability to show you the future, if only you are wise enough to see it.

I looked into my old yearbooks recently, and I found an upside-down note from Joe. It contained the lines, "You are a very attractive, intelligent, good girl. You'll see." At the time, I have no idea what I thought that meant. I don't even remember reading it. But now, with the wisdom of retrospect, I know that Joe saw what I did not: that my lack of confidence was hampering me, that if I could only give myself a few years, and grow into college where the boys were a little less emotionally stupid, I might find that my brand of quiet was attractive to some. That all it would take was time for me to become the person I wanted to be. And that, for the moment, I desperately needed someone to notice me for who I already was. I was awestruck a few weeks ago when I read those sentences. Who knew a high school boy could be so perceptive?

I am still fundamentally certain that I am not part of the Popular Crowd. I know women whose glances and mannerisms remind me of that pecking-order fact every time I run into them at elementary school functions with our children. Though I did not know them in high school, I know they were the Popular Crowd back then.

And they know I was not.

But the thing I am happy to have realized is that, unlike them, I have no desire to relive high school--its great moments or its angst. I no longer wish I were the sort of bubbly, petite girl that joking boys could pick up and carry around on the grassy hillside at lunch. I am not her (though she is wonderful). I am instead someone who was--like most of us in high school--unable to see what I might become.

Now that I am forty, and I find myself actually becoming some of that, I am deeply grateful. Grateful that high school is over. And grateful that there are Kirks and Joes in the world, boys who are wiser than their years, who will help prop up the quiet, insecure girls in ways the girls themselves do not even clearly understand at the time.

I wish I knew where either one of them were today. I would like to tell them thank you. And that I finally see.

And that I hope my son offers up a sentence or two to a high school girl one day to let her know that someone truly sees her.

Finally! Crocs Perfect for a Four-Season Climate

Well, the two-part verdict is in.  The new lined Crocs are awesome. And four-year-olds are not the most eloquent marketers--though their enthusiasm is hard to beat.

Following is an interview with my preschooler, who was lucky enough to receive a pair of Crocs (in pink, of course) with their newest lining option. Ever since she received them, they've been her go-to shoe of choice.

What are Crocs good for?
If they don't have Crocs, they could use sandals for the beach. But instead of just sandals, they can use Crocs too for it. My Crocs are good for running. And playing at the beach. {Editor's note: we haven't been to the beach since last July, so I'm pretty sure this is the winter/grey springtime blues talking.}

What do you use your Crocs for now?
Now I use them lots of times when I am at school inside, and I use them for playing when it's warm out. {Of course, since we live in Michigan, it hasn't been warm out since last October. But see below for why I think they are great for indoor school play.}

What's the best part about your Crocs?
Playing at the sandy sandy beach. And when it's summertime I like to...hmmm...I'm still thinking about it...the best part of it is playing at school with it. {Ah, yes, the sandy sandy beach...}

What do you think about the color of your Crocs?
I like it. But I wish it could have a little purple and blue on it too. {Sorry, Crocs, that's what happens when you ask a four-year-old about color schemes. She wants all her favorites mixed together.}

Which Crocs do you like better? Your old ones without the lining or these new ones?
I love the ones with the linings because it keeps me comfortable.

She may not be the most flowery in her language, but rest assured, she loves these Crocs. If you have little feet in your house, here's my two cents about why you should get them these shoes too. 

First, I love this new lining. It's not that heavy sherpa fleece, which I think looks ultra-warm and cozy but doesn't seem year-round useful to me.  Instead, it's a cushiony lining that reminds me of the footbed of high-tech water shoes. It's thick enough to keep out the drafts while not being too hot. I would imagine that in summer, it will be the perfect solution to the problem of getting little bits of gravel and bark in her shoes on the playground, something that drives her crazy. And, when we do get to the beach, she will be able to use these, and the lining will clearly dry quickly.

Second, these are great preschool shoes for a winter climate, when the kids are pulling on their own snow boots for playground time and need an easy option for changing back to indoor shoes again. These are quick to get on and off (obviously), and the lining makes them warmer than traditional Crocs. So, they work year-round!

And finally, they come in great colors and seem to have more foot support than the traditional Crocs. What's not to love?

In fact, if my son didn't already have a new(ish) pair of Crocs, I would buy him some of these too.

Though I doubt he would find them quite as fashion-versatile as my daughter does. She especially likes to wear them with satin party dresses.



Disclosure: we were offered a free pair of Crocs of our choice to test-drive (test-run?) in exchange for posting a review. All opinions expressed here are our own.

I Can't Seem to Stop them Growing

Son has lost six teeth. When I tuck him in at night, he doesn't always kiss me (though at least he always tells me he "loves me too"). When I pick him up at school wearing the hat he thinks is "stupid," he looks mortified and begs me not to wear that thing in the school. Of course, since he is only just seven, he whines this request.

He still crumples into tears when he gets truly hurt. He has lately taken to turning on the whine-and-cry faucet when the injustices practiced upon him by his pest of a little sister get to be too much.

And yet, there is no denying that my children are getting bigger. It is not just that I can hardly pick up Son or that the clothes that fit both of them in the fall are now perilously short in the legs and sleeves.

It is that they are growing up.

Son, I am realizing, has long conversations with his friends. Actual conversations. Because his best friend at school knew that Son's backpack zipper had broken, and so we had ordered a new one, but it was going to take a few days to arrive, and so he was carrying his boots and folder to school in a bag until the new backpack got here (and so on, in one enormous, breathless sentence). And she knew what he wanted for his birthday. He has friends who may well know things about him that I do not. He has connections and conversations and time that he spends over which I have no control.

Sure, he went to daycare and had hours at a time over which I had no direct supervision. But when I picked him up there, I could check the little chart on the wall to see what items of his lunch he ate (or not) or how long his nap was. He would chatter in the car all the way home about who said what, and who played with the truck first on the playground, and what tricks the visiting magician had done, and who didn't eat all of his fruit at lunch, and who had three time outs, and every other item he considered noteworthy of the day.

Now, I meet him at the school bus, ask him how his day was, and he murmurs, "good." When I ask him what he did, he responds, "I don't know." It's not that he can't have a conversation. In fact, he can have good ones about food or Star Wars or snowman building. But not about school. It's as if school is private. It's not that it's not going well. I get the sense, more, that it is that he has certain things he wants to keep to himself. That he doesn't want to share absolutely everything about his life. That he has a sense of independence at school, and that he wants to preserve that independence for himself.

Daughter, in her own right, is becoming more independent. She has recently announced, "I am going to do some art," and then gotten out her art box and spent two hours on her own, cutting and gluing and beglittering and decorating. She has firm ideas about what she wants to wear every day (a dress, "a pretty one," and no, a skirt is not the same as a dress, even though it also requires tights). The two of them can keep each other giggling for half an hour.

Make no mistake, they still need me plenty. "Mama!" she shouts from the bedroom, "Can you find me a show?" and that's my cue to go wield the remote through all the menus that require reading. "Mama," he beckons as I'm cooking dinner, "can you help me with these Legos?" "Mama," she whines, "he slammed himself in my face and closed the door and won't let me in." "MAMA!" he squawks, indignant, " she won't stop touching my airplane." And so on. They need me to mediate, to soothe boo boos, to help them read the directions, to keep them on task, to make their lunches and wash their clothes, to give them their special tucks in bed every night.

But I wonder sometimes how much longer they will snuzzle me in the morning. I worry that there may soon come a day when, instead of me asking them not to hang all over me, they suddenly do not want to sit on the same chair as I am using. I hope that I am teaching them kindness and empathy and a sense of emotional connection so that even when they outgrow their Mama adoration, they will not only still love their parents but be able to expand their hearts into loving other people as well.

But, oh, even as I admire their new skills (he will read to her! for an hour! she can ice skate! without holding onto anything!), I feel a little tug at my heartstrings for the babies melting away before my eyes.