My Daughter Smells Like Axe

"Still not used to this,” my giggle confessed after Jackson offered up a photo strip.  The amusement park photo booth kiss defied doubt.  We later drove home, silence in the back seat.  The rear view mirror showed them snuggled, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder, his head resting on hers, their hands clasped, and all eyes closed.  A delighted sigh of joy for their closeness contradicted the shock of this mother’s baby girl in a young man’s arms.  It caught the breath; choking on irony, I drove us all home.  

The day's rain shut down rides, they won and lost at games of chance, spent silly amounts of cash on furry creatures, restaurants we navigated to turned up closed, cell phone apps misbehaved, batteries died, and swimming with no towels made for a chilly evening.  Through it all they smiled, laughed, and held hands.  Something propelled them joyfully through consecutive losses.    

Love holds promises for all ages.  Early love affords discovery more compelling than reaching a destination.  Enduring love provides a knowing beyond the biblical sense.  As we ate dinner out, an elderly man joyfully told a server his wife brought him in for his birthday.  He basked in the glow as staff made a celebration out of the event.  His wife-of-a-life-time knew how to bring him joy and cared enough to do it.  

Matrimony guarantees nothing but love finding marriage for life tugs on happy heartstrings.  Anne’s nascent love and her finding comfort, rest, peace, or maybe a little thrill in Jackson’s arms reassures: this could help equip her with tools to one day enjoy enduring love.  Meanwhile I lurch through nascent circular breathing.  That night a naïve kiss goodnight on the forehead brought Axe to the senses.  She glanced up after the shudder and I admitted, smiling: “Still not used to this”.

First Thing's First

"Have fun!" I shouted as Anne and her dad down the driveway to go camping.  Her violin now sits quietly untouched awaiting her return, as does her piano, perfume, matching underwear sets, hair straightener, and very likely her relationship too.  It's her job to move away from us, and she's doing it.

Jackson may have no idea about the continental shifts he's helped set in motion for Anne, beginning with asking her to "the dance" a few months ago.   The list of firsts includes her now caring about how she looks, smells, and feels.  She's putting on lotion.  She recently told me that matching underwear sets give her a little feeling of confidence.  We went shopping the other day and she tried on dresses, another first.  Interestingly she doesn't necessarily save her perfume or matching undies for when she's seeing Jackson.   My mom thinks she's experimenting with a feminine side of her personality and not ready to share it yet.  She may be right.

There have been a few disapproving opinions shared with me about allowing Anne to have a boyfriend.  Maybe there are some unshared as well.  But the disapproval might be more about opening the Pandora's Box of young womanhood than disapproving of Anne or our parenting.  Some saw what I did not anticipate: she's becoming a young woman.  These things happen in their own time.  I feel trying to regulate her feelings would be like trying to have told her when to learn to walk.  All I can do is wave, and say..."Have fun...".

It's a Boy!!!

"Congratulations, it's a boy!" our nurse pronounced Anne upon her delivery.  We'd kept gender a surprise so my husband had to muster some courage to correct: "It's ... a girl...."  He was right, and later as politically correct parents we provided gender-neutral toys: dolls, trucks, tools, and ducks.  Except for hating pink, Anne was all girl.  Her trucks drove dolls to the store where they bought drills later used to plant imaginary flowers for the ducks to eat. 

When she learned to walk, Anne's destinations were  a series of fascinating discoveries.  When she learned to speak, nothing was more fascinating than what she had to say, and when she wrote as a young child she revealed deep and powerful truths in only a few words: "Grownups aren't very good at crying, but babies know just how to do it."  That got us all thinking. These were beautiful mysteries Anne unfolded for us, while I watched some of my contemporaries direct their children in their new accomplishments:  If you walk, we'll go to ballet class.  When you talk, this is what you should say.  When you write, these are the number of lines to fill.  I feel the same about my daughter now having a boyfriend.  I have yet to learn what it means for her, and am waiting with bated breath to find out what she values, what fills her cup, what she wants from a relationship.  Others seem to feel differently.  My allowing her to have a boyfriend seems to indicate that I'm signing off on whatever boyfriend means to those casual observers: her life is over now since it's all about boys, she won't care to achieve anymore because all of her attention will go to the boy, or she'll somehow compromise her morals because of the dangers of libido.  

Parenting girls requires navigating fields of sexualized land mines from unsolicited opinions to unreasonable wardrobe options.  String bikinis in the 9-month-old section of baby bathing suits is a real thing.   It took a good friend lending me Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls, by Mary Pipher and Ruth Ross, for me to figure out a pivotal truth:  support your daughters' non-sexualized identities, and they will become strong happy women, regardless of their relationship status.  Better she make herself known as athlete, intellectual, or musician, than get labeled by others as prude, bitch, or slut.  Anne was a musician in utero; it's no wonder 14 years and $50,000 in instrument lessons later that she'd remember her violin before tampons any school day.  She sports a clean face, beautiful and modest clothes, is compassionate, helpful, and seems proud of who she is; completely separate from her bra size.  She's gorgeous and hardly notices.  

Raising boys is a mystery to me but surely complicated in its own right.  Recently I skimmed an article about how to support any one of several kinds of sons: hero, warrior, side-kick, loner, or champion.  Surely not every boy fits into such simple pigeonholes, but Anne's boyfriend seems to be largely a champion.  He's a strong athlete, has many friends, smiles often, and takes social risks like asking Anne to formal in person instead of texting, or standing up before our entire church congregation to be introduced.  He sets the bar high: he's attentive, positive, and has integrity.  This is earlier than I would have chosen, but who better to journey with than this young champion?  So I'm delighted to learn more about what it means to my daughter to have a boyfriend.  All I know right now for certain is that we have a great new someone in our lives, and this time  "It is a boy!"

The Silence of The Love

"Mom, check it! 5,034 texts!"  If he knew, it would put her dad over the edge.  He'd worry about her wasting time.  I remember whiling away entire evenings on the phone in silence, a boy on the other end of the line, just to be "with"... "him".

These two never talk on the phone.  Instead, their devices are like pocketed pet hamsters frequently checked on for signs of life.  Virtual togetherness is connection without boredom.  Being engaged in the rest of life gives them more to talk about.

Commitment is evident: it's before 7 a.m. on a weekday morning during summer vacation and they've already exchanged several communications.  So when do I get to read one of the 5,034?  Her dad would be fine with it, but it might put her boyfriend over the edge!