Welcome to Womanhood

Earlier this week, my youngest daughter "became a woman."

It happened without warning.  She announced it in the morning and I reacted as calmly as I could.  Inside, however, I was mourning the loss of my baby as she slipped away into adolescence.  Too soon.  All I could do is look at the physical evidence she presented to me and confirm what she already knew; yep, this was definitely IT.

I only called one person, my mom, who was rather excited about the whole thing.  My daughter was yelling in the background, though, embarrassed, "I can't believe you're telling Grandma!  Don't you dare tell Grandpa!!"  I assured her I wouldn't.  That was Mom's job.

My partner gave her chocolate.  Pretty appropriate, I'd say.

My eighteen-year-old made her a rather festive pink cake with Craisins in it and lots of red decorations. She wrote on it in red icing, "Welcome to Womanhood."  We had her blow out one candle and I gave her one dollar.  We tried to make light of the fact that she would be "suffering" this for the next 30 to 40-some-odd years of this.  We joked that she made me "drop an egg" myself because I was so stunned.  We called her a "woman" all day.

I hope she looks back on this day as a good memory.  I mean, who gets a "Period Party?"  Don't you wish you had one?  I'd like one every month, really, but, let's not get outta control now.

The Art of The Dishwasher

I am amazed at how I am THE only person who realizes how to load the dishwasher correctly.

And by correctly, I mean that all the stuff gets exposed to the jets and not piled on top of one another.  That should seem obvious, however it's not.  I don't know what my family thinks happens when the dishwasher door closes.  Tiny little dishwasher fairies take each dish and cup and fork and such into their little hands and scrub them down?  With a sponge?  And Dawn?  (Yes, one of my kids did put Dawn in the dishwasher once.   It was...bubbly.)

Equally annoying is the haphazard way they shove stuff in there.  The wasted space!  It KILLS me!  Me, who can't pack a trunk to save her life, can squeeze service for 12 into a dishwasher if I have to.  But my family, they can't manage to get 3 cups and 2 plates in there.  I don't get it.  It's not that hard.

I don't complain, though, because I'm glad it gets INTO the dishwasher and doesn't stay piled in the sink or, worse yet, stay on the table.  Still, I don't know why they haven't picked up on my neuroses.

I am the first to admit, I have next to NO spatial planning skills.  If someone were to tell me that something was so-and-so feet by so-and-so-feet, well, they'd probably be met with a blank stare as I zoned out, especially if they added a "square" to that measurement.  I CAN pack a suitcase, but that's about the extent of my planning skills.  Seriously.

But for some reason, when I get in front of the dishwasher, I go into Savant mode.  Cups and plates and bowls get shifted until everything is in its place and I'm sure they will all get clean.  I don't know how this skill came about, but I have a good idea.

I come from a family of six and we accumulated a lot of dishes.  For whatever reason, my mother barely washed anything by hand.  My guess is because she washed EVERYTHING by hand before she was blessed with a dishwasher, so she NEVER wanted to have to do dishes EVER AGAIN!  I can't say that I blame her.

Over the years, I've lived in places that had dishwashers and some, unfortunately, that didn't.  Since this one does, I am just like my mom.  TAKE NO PRISONERS!  IF IT FITS, IT GOES IN!

The rest of my family needs to get on board, though, and learn the art of stacking and squeezing.  Perhaps dishwasher lessons are in order?  I am not above that...

The Joys and Pains of Her Being 18

My middle daughter, also known as "my clone," is eighteen years old.

I love saying that.  For many reasons.  It means she's an adult now.

She's "all grown up" even if she still has me smell her milk and chase away spiders and make her doctors' appointments and cut her chicken off the bone.

She has the legal right to make life-altering decisions about herself and her future and the future of others if she so chooses.

She has now completed High School and is now a Junior in College (technically, anyway.  She has yet to apply for college, but she intends to.  And when she does, she will be a Junior in College).

So, when my Mother (with whom said daughter has been staying while she has completed her last year of High School, since we moved out of her district) has a conversation with me like the following, I honestly have a hard time taking her seriously.  I'll explain more why:

Mom: "I am getting tired of your daughter's mess around her room.  Every surface is covered.  I keep telling her to clean this room or we're not renewing her lease." (note to reader: she's being sarcastic...there is no lease.)

Me: "I've told her to clean it, Ma.  What do you want from me?  She won't clean her room here, either."

Mom: "Well, if she doesn't get all of this stuff cleaned up, I swear, I'm going to throw it all in bags and you can store it all in your basement in your house."

Me: "Do what you gotta do, Ma."

Meanwhile, I'm surfing the web, reading my email, whatever, thinking, "If this is all she can complain about my kid, I guess I didn't do too badly."

My eighteen-year-old girl.  Hell, I know what I was getting into at eighteen.  So my kid's a little messy?  She's a good kid, though.

In fact, she's a great kid.  She's the kind of kid most parents want to have.  I have no shame in saying that.

I also know this: my kid's got my dad wrapped around her little finger.  So, no matter how many times my mom threatens to "evict" her, my dad's got her back.  Ha. 

That's gonna work out good because when my eighteen-year-old gets around to it, she plans on going to college near my parents, too.  So, she's going to need to extend that lease.

Why the Summer Sucks

My baby left me Friday night.

And Friday night was supposed to be a night of celebration.

My middle daughter, who has had an amazing, stellar year, graduated from High School.

She won several scholarships and awards.  She had written a play this year that her school had performed!  She had recently been named the 1st place national winner of an electronic music composition contest and her name was on the marquee in front of her high school congratulating her, right on Wantagh Avenue (that's big around here!).

And, yes, of course I'm thrilled for her, but the joy was literally sucked right out of me when, 10 minutes after we got out of that school, we were invaded by their Suzuki and their presence and all that it represented.

I endured them.  I endured being around them, and watching my baby be happy to see them and watching my baby's things getting packed into their Suzuki and talking to him and listening to him and looking at him and remembering things about him and the very, very worst thing.

I endured watching my baby drive away with them.

He promised she'd call and he promised she'd skype.  But the point remains.  I am not going to see my baby for most of the summer.

Her room will be empty and the house will be quiet.  I will be home alone just about every day.

My mother thinks this will be easy for me.  Yeah, a picnic, Ma.

If I were sending her off to camp, I'd be concerned for her, but happy.

This, well, this is different.

Things I just can't say...too much to say.

She's going to be so far away for so long.  I don't know how she really is doing.

Maybe he doesn't care about that the rest of the year, but I care about that during the summer.

I just wasn't ready yet to say goodbye to her.

I don't know when I would have been.  Maybe after a couple of weeks.  At least a few days.

He has no soul.  None.  Because this was not done so he could see his daughter faster.

This was done for "convenience."

At the expense of my convenience.  And comfort.  And sanity.

I guess I should try to take advantage of the quiet.

And celebrate what I have to celebrate.  I will, but still...

The summer will still suck, again, because of him.