Last week at this time I was preparing for my newly minted sophomore and Favorite Youngest Daughter (FYD) to come home with all of the stuff she had accumulated during her first year of college. I was also preparing for my space to be invaded.
And I was going to be prepared this time. On her journeys home during the year FYD had done a couple of things that disappointed—and well—annoyed me. Once after I had prepared her favorite meal, she didn’t come home until nearly midnight. The next time, not to be caught again, I didn’t prepare her favorite meal. Instead I sat up worrying about her until I finally texted her, and she blithely answered, “I’m spending the night with ... .“ When she finally arrived home, she got an earful about when-you- (no matter that you are 18 and of legal age) are-staying-with-anyone- (especially me) you-need-to-let-me-know-what-your-plans-are-that’s-common-courtesy.
Other times she brought a friend or friends who stayed up all night giggling in the living room or who slept three-a-bed until after noon. Then—as she had done since she was three years old (I know mothers of the world, I should have trained her better)—she would insist she had to use the bathroom at the exact same minute that I did or that she had to take a shower right now when I was commencing my leisurely bedtime routine. And let’s not even get started on the unrinsed dishes in the sink and the clothes heaped on the floor.
But this time, I was going to lay down the law about how the bathroom would be shared, kitchen should be cleaned, clothes kept and comings and goings noted. Then she came home.
All my good intentions and preparations fell apart. Actually that happened even before we left her campus. We had several emphatic (as in “I am not yelling, I am being emphatic!”) discussions about her desire to live off campus next semester—and her not signing up for on-campus housing as back-up. If she had not fallen asleep in the car, I’m sure we would have had a very unpleasant ride.
When we arrived home after unloading only half the car because of exhaustion, I nearly locked her out of the bathroom so I could quietly pursue my bedtime preparations. The next day she slept half the day as worn-out college students do and then insisted that we stock up on her favorite foods before we finished unloading the car. I should have known that the never-take-your-child-to-the-grocery-store rule extends into young adulthood. I ended up spending more money in one trip that I had in the last month. I admit it was partially guilt for so artlessly setting boundaries the night before.
The trip to the grocery store made us late getting in line for the Corinne Bailey Rae concert that was her belated birthday present. FYD was not happy. She let me know she was not happy. I was not happy with her either. After a series of quietly heated exchanges, I finally had to move to another seat on the shuttle bus. As we stood in line at the venue, both still seething, a friend of mine came up. We agreed to sit together, because my progeny had already told me that she was going to be standing in front by the stage—by herself. And she did.
Later my friend, a former seminary classmate, told me about her travails with her own daughter at that age. She mentioned something about an opportunity for grace-filled responses. I tucked that away.
FYD was ecstatic after the concert. She was like a different person. She had met and posed with the singer who preceded Rae, wrangled a copy of the set list from a roadie and took almost 1000 pictures of her idol from her vantage point in the front row (where she stood for four hours in cowboy boots).
I, on the other hand, was through. I had also stood most of the time, but I couldn’t see anything. Since I’m only 5’1” without shoes, even with two-inch clogs, when other people stand—which they did—they block my view. And I was tired from the trip the day before. And it was late, later than I usually want to be out. I did break down and buy her the signed poster she wanted, but still my child chastised me for not being as cheery and perky as she was.
The rest of my week was really busy with school year closing and COR activities. Since FYD had been keeping a vampire sleep schedule, we barely spent any time together. I briefly wondered if we—who often seemed to communicate almost telepathically in the past—would ever be on the same wavelength again.
Meanwhile I’d been inwardly raging at Saint B. “You’ve never raised a teenager. You’ve never been a mother dealing with the complicated relationship we have with our daughters. And you’ve certainly never been a single mom with no one to shelter you from the emotional blows from the one you carried in your womb and subsequently rearranged your body trying to get out." (And if Saint B were a teenage girl, he would retort, “Well, I didn’t ask to be born.”)
Of course, I had to pause. Saint B, though neither a woman nor a mother was certainly single, and, apparently he did raise teenagers. He talks about it in the Rule. He calls them “the young” or “juniors” and even speaks specifically of 15-year-olds—an age few mothers want to re-visit with their teenage daughters.
Then this morning I had a thought. My daughter and I had been so at odds that we had not even embraced when we first saw each other. In fact we did not even sit close to each other until last night when we watched a movie together on the couch. How could we establish our telepathic connection when we had not even reconnected by touch?
Saint B talks in chapters 53 and 63 of The Rule about exchanging the “kiss of peace” not only with guests but also with “brethren (daughteren, in my situation?).” How much more should I do this with my own child? So the real issue is not about a returning teenager. It is about me welcoming the fruit of my womb “like Christ,” according to chapter 53. (See http://www.osb.org/rb/text/rbeaad1.html)
FYD is out now with her friend. When she comes back she will receive a big, long, warm, rocking hug and several kisses like I used to give her when she was little. Even if she resists, which I already know she won’t, I will know that I have done my part to heal our rift.
I suspect Saint B would approve.
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