My baby bird, daughter Francesca, is home from college for the summer, and I thought it would be fun for you to hear from her. I hope the following will help my fellow parental units to see how our college-age kids (sorry, adults) see us. So, below is from Francesca:
Now that I’m older, I imagined that living at home with my mother would be different. Not that it needed to change; we’ve always had the best relationship. I can honestly say that my mom is my best friend. But now that I’m twenty-one, I figured our dynamic would be more mature.
Not exactly.
My childhood nickname was Kiki, and my mom always had hundreds of nonsensical pet-names for me. The days of BooBoo, Baby Bumpy, and Mocha JaMocha are over. Or so I thought.
We were in the shoe department, trying to be cool (we both inexplicably get dressed up to go to the mall) when my mom looked up from the sandals and said, “Hey, Bumpy! Look at these!” I resorted to the oh-so-teenage, “Mo-om.” We totally blew our grown-up cover.
Back home, one change in our interaction wasn’t due to my age, it was due to hers. She’d read that she should drink red wine for her heart, so one night, she poured herself a glass and offered me one, too.
This alone was a big step. My mother doesn’t drink, and when I was younger, she decried the perils of alcohol with Prohibition-era ferocity. So, as she poured me a glass of wine, I felt as if we had turned a corner in our new, mature relationship.
I made sure to not drink more than one glass, but I wasn’t the one who had to be worried. After just a few sips, she started up: “Oh I feel it. I can feel it already. Can you feel it?” she asked, excitedly. And before my mom had even finished the glass, she was declaring, “I’m drunk!” like a triumphant frat boy. My mom’s night of boozing (still only one glass) quickly turned sour. She complained the whole night: “Ugh, I have a headache from that wine. I’m sleepy from that wine. I can’t sleep from that wine.” She required more post-party care than my freshman-year roommate.
Jeez, Mom, grow up.
But then, I’m not exactly the sophisticate I thought I’d be when it comes to our mother-daughter time. I’m embarrassed to admit that there are still moments when I’m embarrassed to be out with Mom. This is crazy, because she’s great, and I love spending time with her. But even as a grown (or nearly) woman, the shadow of an insecure thirteen-year-old follows me around. Like last week, I persuaded my mom to see a movie at ten-thirty, because secretly I knew the theater would be less crowded then, and it would be less likely that someone I knew would catch me on date-night with Mom. As it happened, I did run into an old friend from high school who was there on an actual date. Busted.
But it’s not just at the movies. Last week she gave me a ride to my doctor’s appointment. I had a wart on my toe removed and also got the HPV vaccine, Gardasil. As we were checking out, my mom was being her usual friendly self, updating the receptionist on my life. It used to bother teenage-me when she shared the details of my life, but now I see it’s just love. And anyway, what could she really say?
“Today she got that Gardasil shot and got rid of those nasty warts!” Mom chirped. I cringed.
My mother has a way with words.
But truly, I’m lucky that I feel so close to my mom. We can talk about anything-even sex. In fact, it was her idea for me to get the HPV vaccine.
We’ve come a long way. When my mom was moving me out of my freshman year dorm, I was mortified that she found condoms in my nightstand. If that happened this year, it wouldn’t matter. I’m old enough to know what’s in a woman’s nightstand is her business.
That’s why I’m never, ever, looking in hers.
I’m not old enough.
Right, kid, now go empty the dishwasher.
What Francesca doesn’t realize is that she’ll always be my baby, no matter what age. But I have to admit, she’s grown into an incredible young woman who is everything I hoped she would be: smart, strong, funny, and loving. As you can see, she does tell the truth.
And now, she’s grounded.