Today is the day my son and I should be out at a farmer’s market or cool little neighborhood festival. Feel the breeze, experience varied cultures as we shop for ripe farm fresh produce or sample different fair foods that are intended to clog arteries at a record-setting pace.
However, and that’s a big “however” with a teenager, my 15-year-old son does not want to be seen with me. It is hard to comprehend for the uninitiated. But I think he would rather sit in a dark, skeleton filled hall cringing to audible moaning than be seen by one of his acquaintances with his … mother.
Acquaintances, as in a kid his age who he doesn’t even know but might recognize because their hair might be almost the same color as someone one of his friend’s knows. Yes, these people mean more to him than I do right now.
Fine. As long as my lovely washes the stinky dog and studies for his test, we can escape upheaval. It still is possible for him to experience a full life, even though I am thwarted from giving him the best possible childhood anyone in the world has ever experienced because thatismyjobasamother.
This pressure to produce perfection both in the living of life and the people I’m raising is unrelenting. Beautiful HR, my horrible daughter (while those two adjectives may seem to contradict one another they do not) has already flown the coop. I love her, I miss her, I worry about her, I call her, I relish the peace and quiet that comes with her absence.
My husband, her dad is helping her settle into a fractured adulthood in San Diego, the land of sun, fun and ALCOHOL INFUSED CAR CRASHES ON MANIC FREEWAYS WITH STRANGERS WHO DON’T CARE IF HER SHIRT IS TOO LOW OR IF SHE ATE BREAKFAST.
Oh, I’m sorry. Lost my head for a second. Her dad is helping her. Everything is going smoothly.
All is right with the world. Sigh.