- Feb 5, 2002
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I can tell you the exact day the dream died. It came in the form of a six-year-old perched like a cheeky little sprite on the edge of the bed prattling on with an emphatic shake of her riotous curls: “You need to know this about me, Mom. I am just a leopard-skin kind of girl.”
This was the day in my parenting odyssey that I first realized with full clarity: my children were these autonomous creatures who might have thoughts, preferences, and dreams that did not in the slightest resemble my own. It came as quite a shock, I must say. A mother’s daydreams die hard. All my puffed sleeved fantasies of little girl dresses with bows and lace with not one spot of leopard skin anywhere…all dashed by the emphatic nod of a curly head. This was the first time it happened. It would not be the last.
Every parent has dreams. We can’t lie. Some of us want their son to be a bishop, some want him to be a great discoverer, some want a daughter to be a doctor, or a child to be the best pitcher in the country.
Me? I want Khaki Pants Man. Yes, you heard me correctly. Tidy, pressed Khaki Pants Man. That name has become part of our family lexicon. My kids know all about him. He lives in a nice house on a cul-de-sac, with a perfectly manicured yard that never has a leaf lying anywhere. He has five well behaved children all perfectly coifed, impeccably dressed, and who wear shoes and socks ALL the time. Khaki Pants Man is successful and has a perfectly lovely grill on which his pork steaks never burn. We sit on his deck every Sunday and visit. He coaches the parish soccer team, of course, and wears perfectly clean, tidy tennis shoes. His tasteful Christmas decorations go up at just the right time and everything he does is predictable and safe and controlled. I always know where he is, what he is going to do next, and, oh yes, he lives with his family very close to my house. Of course. In our family, this dream man has simply come to be categorized as Mom’s, “guy who always looks ironed.” This is the day-dream future I have concocted for my sons. But my sons? They just laugh out loud. And laugh they should, because where in my genes anywhere is a Khaki Pants Man? I don’t even know where my iron IS.
Continued below.
The parenting odyssey
This was the day in my parenting odyssey that I first realized with full clarity: my children were these autonomous creatures who might have thoughts, preferences, and dreams that did not in the slightest resemble my own. It came as quite a shock, I must say. A mother’s daydreams die hard. All my puffed sleeved fantasies of little girl dresses with bows and lace with not one spot of leopard skin anywhere…all dashed by the emphatic nod of a curly head. This was the first time it happened. It would not be the last.
Every parent has dreams. We can’t lie. Some of us want their son to be a bishop, some want him to be a great discoverer, some want a daughter to be a doctor, or a child to be the best pitcher in the country.
Me? I want Khaki Pants Man. Yes, you heard me correctly. Tidy, pressed Khaki Pants Man. That name has become part of our family lexicon. My kids know all about him. He lives in a nice house on a cul-de-sac, with a perfectly manicured yard that never has a leaf lying anywhere. He has five well behaved children all perfectly coifed, impeccably dressed, and who wear shoes and socks ALL the time. Khaki Pants Man is successful and has a perfectly lovely grill on which his pork steaks never burn. We sit on his deck every Sunday and visit. He coaches the parish soccer team, of course, and wears perfectly clean, tidy tennis shoes. His tasteful Christmas decorations go up at just the right time and everything he does is predictable and safe and controlled. I always know where he is, what he is going to do next, and, oh yes, he lives with his family very close to my house. Of course. In our family, this dream man has simply come to be categorized as Mom’s, “guy who always looks ironed.” This is the day-dream future I have concocted for my sons. But my sons? They just laugh out loud. And laugh they should, because where in my genes anywhere is a Khaki Pants Man? I don’t even know where my iron IS.
Continued below.
The parenting odyssey
