It is delightful. It is terrifying.
It’s such a short time until they will be making adult decisions.
Yet, the future is not even a topic. Stupid music, celebrity worship, friends, clothes. I know it’s all quite normal, but.
I’m freaking out. They tell me more than I want to know. But I want to know. Ya know. I know what’s going to happen next and can’t say anything. Rather, I could, but they couldn’t hear it.
I’m proud of them, but it’s like a train wreck. You can’t stop it. But you can’t look away.
They have a full slate of co-op classes, plus more they are taking from me. They’ve determined not to take anything off me. “From me” and “Off me,” sound the same to them.
They don’t want to go to college. They want to work at the bank. Which would be fine, if they wouldn’t use it as an excuse not to do all they can. They could be rocket scientists. But they won’t try. (Read that with a whiny voice. tryyyyyyyyyy-uh).
SOMEONE told me I’d be taking her to the salon to have her hair done, because I didn’t do it well enough, and she wasn’t planning on learning because it takes too long…according to her rich fantasy life.
Yesterday, in the space of a few minutes, she called me down for honking to wave at friends, because it was embarrassing; and in just a few moments, wanted me to run with her. In public. Like I run.
They are boy crazy. It’s like the visual field is a candy buffet. Fortunately, it is like a candy buffet to a person who has never tasted sugar and has only been fed intravenously. They have no idea. It’s all just lovely to behold.
Here’s what sucks. She has all the right answers, but it’s theory. She’s going to eventually go into the lab. (Sorry, there are just a lot of metaphors). As long as she stays out of the barber shop, I guess I should be happy.
However. No matter how much insight I have in their situation, it’s weird for them to include me in the discussion. My mom was continually asking about my business, in a way that assumed something strange and dirty, and she was dying for details. So I didn’t want to have those conversations with her. I wasn’t that girl. I never became that girl. Even when the freak flag was flying, I kept one hand on the wheel and “one foot on the floor.”*
God, help me.
*If you know what “one foot on the floor” means, I’ll send you a prize**. Probably, Sea-bond and new rubber tips for your walker.
**just kidding, there’s no prize. The prize is that you are still alive.