My Daughter and I are Growing Up

Theme: Adapting to new situations in life is essential

When she stopped letting me choose her clothes, I understood she was growing up. When she started wearing lipstick, I raised an eyebrow but not my voice. When the clothes she wore started to show off more of her body than I thought was appropriate, I let her know, but now, my daughter Emily has finally realized that boys don't have cooties, and they had begun to interest her and worry me. She's a teenager now, but as her parent, the fact that my daughter is sexually interested in boys is giving me insomnia at night. Perhaps she's too young, more than likely, I'm too old, but I don't think I'm mentally ready for her to start dating. I suppose the powers-that-be haven't taken my pleas into account. It's only too ironic that a month after I'd made this latest horrible revelation about my daughter, she's telling me though her cornflakes that she wants John and I to meet a "Rob" this weekend, and may she invite him over for dinner? I want to laugh, want to tell her to wait thirty years, want to slap myself for even daring to crawl out of bed this morning, but instead, I find myself nodding dumbly.

I'm not sure how it happened like that. I'm still trying to figure out why I agreed to her request as I park the van in the office parking lot later that morning. I have as much chance of backing out of it now as I do of losing weight on my current exercise plan. Glancing up as I walk towards the office building, I expect to hear the thunder clap overhead, announcing a torrential downpour of rain, because someone up there must truly hate me.

It's Saturday night and I'm cutting green onions for dinner in my ratty old blue jeans while John peels carrots - he looks as tense as me, as he's almost sliced his finger twice now instead of the carrot. With luck, this Rob will hate Chinese food, he might get lost on the way, or perhaps, Emily will phone him with a last minute cancellation, claiming she's suddenly denounced boys. I think this meeting tonight is one of the stupidest things I've ever agreed to, but at the same time, I'm also furiously hoping this boy makes Emily happy and I secretly hope we impress him, despite that fact that I'm stubbornly refusing to dress up for the occasion.

Suddenly, the doorbell rings.

John starts towards the entrance hall to open the front door and is quickly intercepted by our daughter, who bowls down the stairs with a speed I never knew her capable of. I'm telling myself there's no point in going to the door to meet our visitor - there isn't a boy in the world that I would approve of my daughter dating. Then the door opens, and standing there is this perfectly normal, nice, tidy looking boy with a genuinely friendly if not slightly nervous smile. What did I expect? I'm not sure, maybe I was envisioning some slimy twenty-five year old boy, his pants hanging off his hips as if he was an apprentice plumber, and an education not fit for a job as a car salesman. This handsome, honest looking young man is not what I was expecting, and all I can manage is a weak smile and squeaky greeting when Emily introduces me to Rob.

Dinner went exceptionally well: Ron proved himself to be a mature, well-rounded, and socially engaging young man, perfectly capable of contributing to an intelligent conversation. I think I've gained a new hope for the next generation after meeting Rob tonight. I feel incredibly proud of Emily and of myself as well, because I can't help but think that her upbringing somehow influenced her intelligent choice of boys. The night is over now and Rob has gone home after many fond farewells and wishes. John and I are sitting on the sofa in the living room feeling quite shocked; neither of us knows what to think.

"Wow," says John intelligently.

"Yeah, wow," I add.

Then he turns to face me, all serious except for the humor in his eyes, "Well, she certainly didn't inherit her wise decision-making skills from you."

"I guess not," I retort, and poke him in the ribs.