Reflectionary

13

Nearly a dozen girls have gathered to celebrate the entry of The Princess into that sisterhood of the teen years; she is 13 today, the last among her friends.

In our dining room, on the window and door sills are little figures. I hear them ask, what are those?

"My stepdad is a Dungeon Master," she answers, and I can hear something tentative in her tone. Is this amusing geekery, or does it cross the dangerous border to the Land of Nerd, or worse, the Valley of the Dorks?

The answer comes quickly as several girls squeal, "Cool!!!"

And they move on to other topics of importance: being able to swallow pills, how much makeup is too much, what shall we have on our pizza?

They quote "The Princess Bride," for they all like to think of "True Wuv," though they make fun of it at the same time. I remember taking The Princess to see the movie when she was too young, because I had nowhere else to leave her. I fed her chicken nuggets to keep her quiet. Was she 2 or 3? Hard to remember. It's part of her muscle memory now, along with certain books and restaurants and people we have known along the way, part of our collective memory as a family and her personalized life story, too.

I don't know all these girls. Some are recent friends. The old and the new survey each other upon arrival, wondering how they will fit together, drawn in a circle by the birthday girl.

Molly the Dog circles the group, hopeful, though I am on hold with Domino's, and the pizza she envisions is not here, just yet.

There is laughter, and conviviality, and this is only the first day of the coming age.

After play practice

They burst through the door, faces red and teeth chattering, proceeded by a dog who hardly feels the cold.

From the couch I directed him to walk the dog to the middle school and meet his sister. Of course we cannot know what may be happening at the other end of those 7/8ths of a mile. Standardized tests and unrequited love create a sorrow not abated by two hours of singing and dancing to the chorus numbers in "Annie."

She goes into the kitchen and her brother and I respond together, as we hear the running water, "Don't put your hands in hot water!"

Discouraged she slumps to the couch and sits as far away as possible. I know something hurts her, something other than bright pink cheeks and fingers.

Emo Boy, of course. She cries, putting her hands over her face.

Sam woofs, asking to be let in, and she slumps over to the door, but only after I ask. He comes into the living room, and she kneels down to pet Molly and Sam licks her face, and she smiles.

But the moment passes, and there are more tears and "I'm going upstairs."

Brother at the bottom of the stairs turns his sensitive ear toward her sobs.

When I had babies, I heard that old advice, "Let them cry it out." I didn't have the heart for it. But at 11, or 45, sometimes we must.

Impossible

She sits on the kitchen chair, her knees drawn up against her chair, and weeps.

I want to be the Fairy Godmother, want to wave a magic wand and make it all better, make a boy like her and not her cousin, make that same boy stop flirting with her and breaking her heart, make her not care what he says or does in the first place, make it all stop.

But that is impossible.

I put my arms around her and kiss her head.

She was an easy baby; this part is so much harder. She has a well-resourced, well-educated mother, a person who cares for others for a living, but this mother simply cannot say the right thing. To say the right thing is impossible.

Perhaps there is no right thing to say.

She sobs. I hug her again and make comforting noises. She sobs some more.

Then, the storm passes. She gets up and walks across the room. "I feel better now."

That makes one of us.

I scrub a frying pan while she leans against the kitchen counter, still blowing her nose.We unpack the experience, the pastor and the perhaps future pastor. She tells me what sort of things she would like to hear when she is upset.

I know these are the things I've said. But convincing her? Impossible.

The Gap

She dressed for school in jeans, a shirt and a sweater. I made the sweater with my own two hands, a roll-waist Harry Potter "Weasley" sweater in a lovely tweedy purple, with the letter H in a soft, soft pink. Although she is taller and the sweater therefore shorter, last year's Christmas present sees more wear this year. The jeans came from Old Navy, a dark wash in size 4 Short, since for some strange reason they have ceased selling a Girls 16 in the stores.

Perhaps I have never seen her wear this sweater with these jeans, or perhaps the shirt worn underneath was different. Today I perceive a gap, a glimmer of skin visible above the pants and below the shirt and sweater, a gap that points to places and things I would rather not describe when writing about my daughter.

These jeans are not super-low, but they are low enough to make me think a moment about sending her back upstairs for a different shirt. I don't want to be like my mother, who once said I looked like a hussy when trying on a dress for a college dance that exhibited some cleavage.

But this is sixth grade!

She is slender after her recent bout with stomach flu (not that she was large before), and maybe that's the reason the pants fit differently and seem to create an opening suggestive of her ripening femininity. I don't want to be my mother; I don't want to make her feel ashamed of being herself.

Yet I must say something.

When I do, her eyes flare! "It's your fault for making the sweater too short!!!!"

And so she goes to school, with the gap.

Phone Call

Late and feeling mildly guilty, I called home from my cellphone. She picked up the phone quickly; the TV shows Caller ID, and she recognized my number.

"Hello!" she exclaimed.

"Hi, sweetie. How was your day?"

"Great!!!" Her voice vibrated with excitement.

"Well, good!" I replied.

Then, before I could say anything else, she rushed these words into the air between us: "Cody asked me to the dance!!!!"

Ah. I understand now.

Sick Day: a Play in One Scene

Girl: My ear still hurts.

Mom: Since you've managed to keep a piece of toast down, you could probably take some Motrin.

Girl: It hurts when I put pressure on it in a certain position.

Mom: (resists urge to say "don't put pressure on it in a certain position.")

Girl: Do you think there could be something in it?

Mom: I doubt it. But what exactly do you mean? Would you like me to look at it?

Girl: Will you promise not to touch it?

Mom: Of course!

Girl: Because you always say that, and then you always touch it!

Mom: Do you want me to look at it?

Girl: No!!

Mom: I promise I won't touch it.

Girl: No!!

Mom: But you think there's something in it?

Girl: I don't know. Maybe.

Mom: You mean, like a bug?

Girl: No!! I don't know!

Mom: Do you mean a foreign object? Or an infection?

Girl: Never mind.

(All is quiet.)

Girl: (triumphantly holds out hand) Look!

Mom: It's a whisker!

Girl: It is?!??

Mom: Yes!

Girl: It must be from Puss Puss. She rubs her head against me.

Mom: I could have gotten it out for you.

Girl: Never mind.

At the End of the Day

When they came home from their dad's house, I was tucked up on the couch, laptop on a pillow, feet in warm socks, long johns under my nightgown, pretty well done in by my day. It happened that I did not get home before the pick-up time, and my only contact with The Princess had been by phone.

There is tension about boys, or rather about Guitar Boy, and there is a dance at school Friday, and I wondered if there wouldn't be some angst to share. But when I called from the car, she shared nothing and sounded fine.

Even so, I was not surprised to see her crumple onto the couch, first saying she was tired, then that her ear hurt, and finally, finally, that Guitar Boy had hurt her feelings, probably unintentionally, today.

All the things I want to say, all the sensible, supportive words and phrases, ring hollow in my mind. I choose my words carefully; don't screw up and get pushed away again, I think.

It's possible there are no right words. I know that. But if I could, I would take away her sorrow, and her liking for Guitar Boy, and make her love me the way she did when she was 3, and I knew how to comfort her.

Tonight I settle for coaxing her into a hug. This girl, taller than I, with painted fingernails, who cries over a 12-year-old and continues to like him even though he has a girlfriend, worries me. I wish she could be more fickle and learn to like someone else. She breaks my heart by saying, "I guess I'm just not the kind of girl some boy walks up to and asks to a dance."

I remember this. I remember Alex who said, "I sort of like you, as a friend." I remember Jesse, too surly to even say that much. I remember Billy and Brad and John and so many others, all heart-breakers, all bastards, all boys who didn't like me, or did but changed their minds. (And let's not get started on the ones who turned out to be gay...)

But even for me, and I fewer charms to offer than those she possesses, even for me the day came when there was young love that lasted more than a day or a week or a month. I'm sorry for her, sorry that she feels sad and less than, but I'm relieved that she won't be slow-dancing with a date on Friday night in the school gym. I'm glad of that.

Shocking Pink

She grows her nails too long, long enough that the piano teacher mentions them at almost every lesson. She paints them in vivid colors, but not very well. Today she chose a shocking pink. Closeted in the downstairs bathroom she applied the varnish, a bit unevenly, then employed a Q-tip dipped in polish remover to tidy the result. It, too, is pink, and its noxious fragrant shocks me as I slide open the pocket door. Her father phones from the driveway. Dinner at his house awaits.

"But my nails! They're a mess! They're not right!"

She twists her face; do they call it a moue? Yes, I remember. I remember showing my mother just such a moue, and the sharp slap of her hand against my cheek.

I turn away, shocked by her expression and my memory, as she flounces to the door.