For those of you who have teenage daughters, have you ever found yourself extracted back into her world of sparkly eye shadow, little known bands and her eighty best friends?
My daughter was getting ready for prom with one of her besties and I found myself on the floor of her room, giggling with them at everything– their stories of bad hair days, “chill” teachers and embarrassing photos. The girls were changing into their gowns, just about down to their underwear, me, still in my ten year old sweat pants, when I realized– Oh my gosh– I’m the mom. I have to get back to the kitchen—to scrubbing that pan that’s been soaking for two days, I need to finish rolling sock pairs– sighing once again at the singletons lost somewhere in the laundry universe. In an instant, I grew forty year old horns, shaking my head with my dredged up maturity, now sentient of this high school milestone and overjoyed that my daughter is enveloped by loving girls, and boys, when my own high school experience was quite the opposite.
I shillyshallied by the door and said, “You need privacy. I’ll just go grab a plastic shopping bag and take the dog out.”
My job is to be my kid’s mother always, but especially now during their teen years. They seem so grown up that it’s easy to forget that they’re still kids. And they are—kids– until eighteen years of age. And I am the Comptroller of this Mega-Corporation until then. Heck, if I had it my way, I’d manage them until their brains were officially grown up which isn’t until their mid twenties! (Alas, even when they’re thirty-seven I’ll blow gusts of guidance; whether or not they implement the waft is their prerogative.) But the adult-pecking order feels right. College, life lessons, work, life lessons, maybe more college, life lessons, love, marriage, babies, hopefully travel thrown in there and of course lots of visits with parents.
I closed the door behind me and within minutes the girls emerged, bright fabrics swathing them like elegant nightgowns, black heeled shoes giving them stature, and smiles outlined by a lipstick color called “I Feel Pretty Red.”
And for once my daughter allowed me to take pictures of her. And I knew, it was A-ok to have made that delicate trip backwards into their world as they prepared for Prom.
My phone flashed at different angles and I truly cherished being the amateur photographer, the laundry maid who folds while checking email, the cafeteria lady without a hair net, the dog walker with puppy drool all over her pants, the Quicken-illiterate accountant, the plumber without the crack…
Have you ever regressed to your younger years without the use of stimulants?