Cool is in the eye of the beholder.  Some things are practically unanimous, like James Dean, California and lattes.  I know, as a grown-up, I am supposed to do what makes me happy, cool or not.  It doesn’t matter what others think.  Somehow, I can’t keep the logic in my head.  I want to do what my parents didn’t do for me, be cool around my kids but still be me and cool.  I do what I like and sometimes I think I’m being cool until someone tells me I’m not.  Family is good for identifying frauds, especially teens.  Moms can’t win.

Cool sparkles.

I dress for the day, in something I think is fashionable:  A navy sweater sprinkled with understated jewels from J. Crew.  I paired it with distressed skinny jeans and spikey-toed ballet flats.  I stay in my I-think-I-look-fine outfit even at middle-school pick-up.  I purposely arrive a little early so I can talk to my friend, on the sidewalk, like the Kindergarten years.  So far my thirteen-year-old r hasn’t said it wasn’t cool to wait in plain sight.   On this day, he barely said hello and only glared at me like he was looking at a horror show, eyes wide like saucers.

Careful. Don’t make me mad. Spikes can hurt.

He saunters past, holding his hand up for the car keys and avoiding eye contact.  He often waits for me in the car; I can talk a lot.  I say my quick goodbye and head to the car with him.  “What’s wrong?” I ask.  “Get in the car before my friends see me with you in that sweater!  Is it new?  It looks old.”  I told him I liked the sweater a lot.  “Did you show your friend when she came over yesterday?  Did she like it?”  I didn’t have any doubts so I didn’t think to ask.  I like it.

I pick up my high-schooler in the same outfit.   As he gets into the car exclaims, “Is that new?  When did you get it?  It looks old.  I don’t like it.”  He sees my new bright yellow tote in the back.  “Geez, did you get a new purse too?”  He’s practicing to be a husband.  “The purse is cool.”  Geez.  Do I need to defend myself to more than one male in the house?  I think I know how my younger brother felt when he said he had four moms, three of them sisters.

I didn’t dress to impress the youth.  Gads, I don’t want to be a walking freak show either.  I wasn’t even trying.

I like it. What do teens know?

When I think I’m trying, I catch up on popular music.  I thought my family would be thrilled I’m breaking out of my eighties collection.  I try to talk to them about Grammy-award-winning tunes I just love.  “Do you know “Some Nights” by fun.?”  I asked my husband.  “No.  I don’t listen to pop music,” he replies with an air of “I don’t eat white bread or drink white zin either.”   My boys say the same thing, in stereo, “We don’t like pop music.”  This time I did try and failed.

Sometimes I get direction on being cool, not just when I’m not cool.  My middle-school son, loves to blast music in the car, especially if he thinks the song is cool and we are driving into the high school parking lot for swim practice.  His friend and his younger brother are in the back seat.  He rolls down the windows for good measure.  “Hey, wait a minute.  We can’t drive into the parking lot with the music blaring.  I’ll look like a bad mom!”  My son disagrees.  “Come on Mom.  Everyone will think you are cool!”  When I stop to let them out, about 15 seconds later, I say, “Get out of the car fast before MY friends see me.  And take your music with you.”  His cool is not my cool.

Then when I want to blast the music, at home, windows closed it is a different story.  I rarely play music while I cook dinner but I was in the mood.  My older son is stretching an injured leg in front of the TV.  He didn’t want me to interrupt his show.  Gosh darn it, I think.  I couldn’t play music growing up unless my parents were gone.  Now I’m the parent and the kids don’t want me to play it.  This is insane.  So I blast some music for a bit until clearly my older son has had enough.

Always beautiful. Always cool. From my dad’s garden.

Guns and Roses “Sweet Child of Mine” is shaking the house.  My older son suggested to me it was rather loud.  I shrugged him off.  He steps out the front door for a minute and comes back.  “It’s just as I thought.  I can hear the music from across the street,” says sweet child of mine.  The song ends, my husband is back.  I turned off the stereo.  I got my fix.

Days later, we talk about being cool.  I ask the boys, “I’m cool, right?  My mom was so not cool.”  At least I don’t remember her that way.  And really nobody’s mom was cool like today’s moms.  But still, I can’t imagine I am like my mom.  I don’t wear the same polyester; mine is black and called yoga pants not orange no-press pants with a matching button-down floral top.  I don’t listen to elevator music while I iron handkerchiefs either.

My boys’ response, “You are cool for a mom.  You are not cool for a teenager.”

I can live with that.