At 12, she was disdainful. ?Cassie is so different now, Mommy,? my daughter would sniff after school. ?She wears crop tops.? I?d sigh and nod, thrilled we were on the same page about the inappropriateness of belly-revealing tees that, in my opinion, had no place in school?or anywhere for that matter.
But as she moved from grade seven to grade eight, the hemlines of her shirts began an upward ascent. At first just a sliver?only noticeable if she were to, say, put up her hand in class. But as grade eight gave way to grade nine, it was impossible to deny a change was afoot?the hems became more brazen, the occasions more frequent. When I?d balk, she?d pull out her stock excuse: ?Our school is so hot!? she?d say, ignoring my reminder that it was January. In those early days, she had the good sense to throw an oversized plaid shirt on top. ?I keep it on all day,? she?d assure me. But after comparing notes with other distraught moms, I realized the likelihood of this was slim to none. And then, one morning midway through grade ten, my daughter strolled into the kitchen in all her midriff-baring glory? minus the extra shirt? and casually asked what we were having for breakfast. I get the appeal. The midriff is powerful real estate, and crop tops are everywhere, (including Old Navy, in size 4T). But that doesn’t make it OK with me. I?ve tried to gently dissuade her a zillion different ways, most of which  involve me trailing her through the house in a mild panic as she collec...