It was bound to happen.

Somehow, I expected to have more time before the inevitable came crashing down—bringing with it the inevitable begging, pleading, negotiating, and bargaining.

Well, my naiveté was cut down to size with a plastic Visa card last week.

At the end of a long workday, I found myself schlepping to three different stores—and then, haplessly, bending to the evil ways of the marketing geniuses who have commandeered my adorable six-year-old’s fashion sensibilities.

Or more specifically, her footwear sensibilities.

Now, one could argue that a girl’s love of shoes is clear assertion of her feminism. I mean, did we learn nothing after watching Carrie Bradshaw prance around in her Manolos for six seasons? Somehow, though, I suspected something more diabolical at play.  Something like an evil Don Draper with and old timely villain mustache, holding my paycheck in one hand and a match in the other.

According to industry reports, the “youth market” is the fastest growing consumer market today. Internationally, tweens control nearly $1 trillion in household income spending. Consumerism is rampant, target marketing is blatant, and this is happening at time when my household income is holding steady despite state furloughs. Paul and I have tried to launch a counterinsurgency attack against this evil force—we successfully prevented the girls from watching anything with commercials for years—Ava could skip through the DVR’d commercials before she even know how to turn the TV on. Paul bought a book called Trees Make the Best Mobiles. We both read it. But, despite our best efforts, it’s happened. Don and the boys have infiltrated my kid’s psyche and have begun to move the invisible hand of capitalism right into my wallet. Bastards.

Want proof?

The entire car ride and throughout the walk through Nordstrom Rack and the mall, I had to listen to Ava belt this out in her don’t-forget-I-want-to-be-a-Broadway-star singing voice:

Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle toes

Everything sparkles…and glows!

Give me fashion, give me cool!

Twinkle toes are rock n roll!

I want diamonds on my toes

Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle toes!

(Want the real thing? Watch this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7wcCq9E4oM)

I’m not sure it was the incessant singing, the fact that her crocs, literally, fell apart as she was getting out of the car at Nordstrom Rack (seriously, its was crazy), exhaustion from working all day and THEN having to shoe shop with a six-year-old, or the pressure of trying to meet her expectations…but there I was at the counter paying $42.78 for a pair of offensively sparkly, obnoxiously ugly, laceless Sketchers sneakers.

And, keep in mind, my kid hasn’t even achieved tween status…she’s just a lowly six-year-old. Think of the damage she’ll do in three years when she turns nine.

As the mother of two young girls, I feel it is my responsibility to impart upon them fundamental aspects of womanhood that are critical to the navigation of the complicated road of the female psyche. You know, things like

• your cutest boyfriend is never as important as your best girlfriend

• wine, Patsy Cline, and brie are an ample substitute for nothing better to do on a Friday night

• a man staring at your chest while talking to you is actually NOT a compliment

• pedicures and flowers actually do make you feel better—even if you pay for it all yourself

• paying for it yourself always feels better than letting him pay, anyway

Women are complicated, for sure. While raising young girls who are practicing to be women, moms have a special obligation to try to walk the line between protecting their self-esteem and letting their daughters figure it out on their own. Self-esteem for girls is tricky, tricky business and it doesn’t get any easier as girls get older…like, say, at age 37.

Case in point: last week was insane. Our family vacation week to Monterey snuck up on me like tax day. Work and other distractions kept falling on top of me—never mind the fact that Ava starts first grade in mere days—another transition this usually-on-her-game mother is woefully unprepared for. And in the middle of it all…I was struck by my overwhelming sense of vanity.

Vacation Vanity.

Women understand the true nature of Vacation Vanity. It is the kind of vanity that at the last minute has one running around trying to get toes pedicured up, vacation outfits purchased, and hair cut. I find this female vacation ritual hilarious…especially since this Monterey trip only included the three other people who live in my house who see me all the time and my in-laws who could give a shit about the condition of my brows. Nonetheless, Vacation Vanity is something I begrudgingly accept in the name of “doing something for myself” right before throwing myself at the mercy of the Gods of Vacationing with Your Children.

So after the cut hairs, polished nails, and new sweaters there was only one hurdle left to overcome in my attempt to combat my vanity affliction…my bikini wax.

The bikini wax.

Ugh.

The bikini wax is quite possibly the very, very worst ritual of Vacation Vanity. And not only because of it’s excruciatingly painful and humiliating sensory experience.  More importantly, it represents—especially for those who fall squarely in the over-30 mother set—the difference between Us and the hairless-obsessed generation behind Us. Generally, this difference makes it impossible for me to feel anything but old without a proper wax job. All of this despite the fact that exactly two days after the wax job, I spied most recent issue of Cosmo, touting the return of the “untamed va-jay-jays.” And you know…if Cosmo says it, it must be true. Even though, I’m sure that Jessica Alba who graced the cover has nothing if not a well-tamed va-jay-jay (for the record I don’t read Cosmo, I saw the cover at the grocery store).

Adding insult to serious injury, my bikini wax last week felt more violating than my first sexual experience. To make matters worse, it was pretty much my fault. I was way overdue so, as an after thought, the bikini wax was tagged onto my existing brow wax appointment. Yes, Vacation Vanity’s siren song was strong that morning and—without thinking about the implications of having my bikini line waxed at the chop shop where my toes and brows are done—I asked the girl if she could squeeze it in.

Big mistake.

Big mistake because I spent 45 minutes contending with misplaced hot wax and digits. The limited-English proficiency of my aesthetician also had me constantly concerned that she misunderstood my intentions. I kept sitting up and checking to make sure it wasn’t all coming off. Because, frankly, as hard as she was working and as much tugging and pulling that was going on I was terrified I would be planning a trip to Rio just to accommodate my hairless status. Nonetheless, I survived the experience with a modicum of dignity and hair left over. I paid for my services and hobbled out of the shop.

So, on my first official day of vacation I slipped on my bathing suit determined to not let the humiliation and emotional scaring of my most recent bikini wax hold back my newly waxed sense of self-esteem. And, at that exact moment I was struck by a memory from nearly two years ago…I was getting out of the shower when a then-two-year-old Carmen looked up at me and said:

“Mommy, why do you have a mustache on your vagina?”

And without a moment’s hesitation I replied:

“Well, honey, because Mommy isn’t single anymore”.

I may not be single but I am overflowing with self-esteem.

Take THAT, Cosmo.