Muffin Uptown needed a dress for a wedding. She wasn't looking for a fancy something--she wasn't standing up with the bride at the altar--she just needed a new summer dress to sit in the pew and watch The boy's sister get married.
Said Boy had already hit the most promising shops with her the week before, standing outside the dressing room door while she tried on and rejected dress after dress after dress.
I love that boy.
The essential problem was that MU had a certain dress in mind before she began shopping. This is never a good idea. Of course, what she wanted was not to be had. Anywhere. So, what's a girl to do?
Call her mom.
Sigh. Those of you who have or are in the process of raising daughters know exactly where this story is going. Those of you without daughters--well, there's just no way to explain it to you. Move on to the next post.
But, here's where the story gets interesting. Although I was prepared--armed with Rufus Wainwright on the ipod, a couple of tranqs (for me, not for her), and the stony resolve to turn around and leave her naked ass in the dressing room if need be--there was no trouble. The implied recriminations (i.e., as my mother, you are responsible for my having this ugly, misshapen body), the icy silences, the huffing and puffing fit to blow your house in--well, they just didn't happen. I got a pass. For the modest price of a summer frock, I got to spend several very enjoyable hours with my daughter and was rewarded with the sight of her looking like a tea-time vision from a Merchant-Ivory film.
Wouldn't that be good news? If so, then why do I feel like I've mislaid something--like I need to retrace my steps? Where did I leave that unsure, rebellious, coltish girl? You would have thought I would be glad to see her go. But I'm not. Really, I'm not.
She's 21 years' old, after all. More independent and self-assured, the list of things for which she needs her mother's help is becoming shorter every day. Everything is just as it should be.
Everything, except that I've wasted two perfectly good tranquilizers I could have saved for the next Monday morning Director's meeting. And I managed somehow to have misplaced a child.
Said Boy had already hit the most promising shops with her the week before, standing outside the dressing room door while she tried on and rejected dress after dress after dress.
I love that boy.
The essential problem was that MU had a certain dress in mind before she began shopping. This is never a good idea. Of course, what she wanted was not to be had. Anywhere. So, what's a girl to do?
Call her mom.
Sigh. Those of you who have or are in the process of raising daughters know exactly where this story is going. Those of you without daughters--well, there's just no way to explain it to you. Move on to the next post.
But, here's where the story gets interesting. Although I was prepared--armed with Rufus Wainwright on the ipod, a couple of tranqs (for me, not for her), and the stony resolve to turn around and leave her naked ass in the dressing room if need be--there was no trouble. The implied recriminations (i.e., as my mother, you are responsible for my having this ugly, misshapen body), the icy silences, the huffing and puffing fit to blow your house in--well, they just didn't happen. I got a pass. For the modest price of a summer frock, I got to spend several very enjoyable hours with my daughter and was rewarded with the sight of her looking like a tea-time vision from a Merchant-Ivory film.
Wouldn't that be good news? If so, then why do I feel like I've mislaid something--like I need to retrace my steps? Where did I leave that unsure, rebellious, coltish girl? You would have thought I would be glad to see her go. But I'm not. Really, I'm not.
She's 21 years' old, after all. More independent and self-assured, the list of things for which she needs her mother's help is becoming shorter every day. Everything is just as it should be.
Everything, except that I've wasted two perfectly good tranquilizers I could have saved for the next Monday morning Director's meeting. And I managed somehow to have misplaced a child.
1 comment:
I'm sorry I'm not a wild colt. Maybe I'll come over to your house and eat all your food, terrorize your cat, pick and argument, cry for a bit, and then borrow money.
I'll see you at 6:00 tonight then.
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