Brakeman - Is that the shirt youre wearing?: a memoir in essays

I spent bucks on my daughters high school yearbook, yet when it finally arrived a couple weeks ago I was banned from reading it. Hey, you cant read what my friends write, my daughter said as she ripped the book from my hands.

Well, darn. There is nothing more fascinating then clever quips from 15-year-olds. Youre so sweet! Text me. H.A.G.S!

Riveting.

In the few seconds I spent flipping through the pages I was amazed by how big the darn things had gotten. Mostly because of all the parent congratulatory ads they have now - Brittany, your Mom and Dad clearly love you more than your friends parents because we spent $250.00 on this full-page ad. The rest of the bulk was from the endless photos of sports teams, clubs, and the yearbook staff itself, of course.

They had the biggest section in my yearbook too, I told my daughters.

Wait, you had yearbooks way back then? my eldest asked.

Yes, we had yearbooks, I said through clinched teeth, but instead of photos, our likenesses were chiseled on tablets and our names were read by the town crier.

Really? Yes, really.

I instantly regretted my stupid admission. Once my kids knew I had a yearbook hidden away somewhere, they wouldnt rest until they had unearthed it. I made up excuses.

I didnt know where it was. It was buried under a stack of lumber. It was locked away in a safe, guarded by snakes, buried under a stack of lumber. I even tried the truth; it wasnt worth looking at because I was a shy nerd and there was only one picture of me in it anyway.

But it was no use. Soon I was out in the garage, brushing off rat droppings from the plastic bin that housed my childhood memories. While fighting off gagging, I began to have a change of heart. Perhaps it would be fun to look at my yearbooks with my kids? It might be good for them to see me as a person who was once their age, and not just their mom. Also, I had a reunion approaching and I was still trying to decide whether I should attend. These yearbooks might give me the sentimental nudge that I needed.

The kids grabbed the books and within seconds hilarity ensued. Look at that girls hair! And look at that guys shirt! Didnt they have mirrors back then?

Who could blame them? Between the frizzy perms and the shoulder pads, the eighties were indeed a train wreck of style and fashion.

My kids found the one picture of me. Even more laughter.

But then they found the handwritten messages from my friends. Oh dear God. I had forgotten about those. This was indeed a parenting mistake of colossal proportions.

My youngest daughter began to read out loud, Kristen, I loved hanging out with you at Dianes sharing Lowenbraus and Cheez-its!