May 23, 2017
The Apple of My Eye,
Who Didn't Fall Far from the Tree
My beautiful 15-year-old daughter is terrible about cleaning up after herself. I frequently find myself tidying up behind her, loading her crusty dishes into the dishwasher, and sweeping up after her mud-laden forays into the woods near our house.
Tonight, after coming home from work, I wearily put away the garlic-and-herb cheese spread she'd used, closed up the cracker box, swept up the crumbs, and wiped the counter clean. I sat down to read the newspaper. As I turned the pages, my right hand and wrist became coated with what seemed like a fragrant, sticky, white unguent that spread to my sleeves. The knife that she had used to spread the cheese had been tossed onto the newspaper. Big globs of schmear had been camouflaged all over the front section, only to be transferred to whoever tried to handle the pages.
My right hand, wrist, and shirt sleeve were covered in pungent, garlicky camembert. Yuck!
I marched up to her room with the gunky paper and cheese-encrusted knife in tow. She was skyping with her friends.
I stood in the doorway, holding up the newspaper in one hand as evidence, while brandishing the besmirched butter knife in my equally besmirched right hand.
"Yes, Mother??" She asked, in a classic, teenage snarky voice. Her friends paused in their conversation.
"Do you think," I asked her--in an equally obnoxious, long-suffering mother tone of voice--"you could remember to put things AWAY in the future??"
She rolled her eyes. It was a theatrical moment, with her role being performed for the audience of her peers. She was the long-suffering, teen heroine, being pestered by the Nagging Mom. The eye-rolling goaded me beyond belief.
I leapt forward into the room. In a most unexpected, highly dramatic maneuver, I wiped the knife blade onto the skin of her right thigh, once, twice, three times-- spreading three blobs of gooey cheese onto her flesh, while her eyes widened in surprise.
In utter disbelief, she exclaimed, "You cunt! You cunt! You CUNT!" She scuttled back, crablike, carefully trying not to transfer this semi-liquid cheese from her leg onto her laptop.
My mouth grew tight with a deeply primal satisfaction as I stepped back towards the doorway. She shook her head as she tried to use tissues to wipe up her thigh.
It was a sublimely ridiculous situation, and we were both aware of playing to an audience. The teen viewers, stunned into a silence for a moment, began to laugh.
My daughter and I looked at each other, and we also began to laugh hysterically. I bowed to her, and took my grimy arm, and dirty knife downstairs to wash off. I could hear excited chatter from the tinny computer speaker; behind me, her door slammed shut in what must have been a very satisfying gesture for her.
In a deeply primal way, I also felt intense satisfaction at how I had handled my grievance. It was utterly childish, intensely immature. And yet, when had rational, traditionally maternal requests to clean up been heeded?
I believed that on some level, she understood that I had meant everything in loving jest. I certainly understood that her epithet of "cunt" had been lovingly meant.
If you'd asked me ten years ago--or even three years ago--if I'd have been laughing hysterically at my daughter's repeatedly calling me a cunt, in front of her friends, while both of us giggled...I'd not have believed it possible.
Did I expect to be the kind of mother who smears garlic cheese spread all over her daughter?? If you'd told me that ten years ago, I might not have believed it, either.
My daughter is fierce and funny and outspoken. She is the perfect daughter for me, and I guess I am the perfect mother for her.
She is growing up to be a strong woman who knows how to balance play and work, and who is like the glue in her friendship circle. She is helping me find my own balance in life, too.
I love my daughter so much.
***
January 20, 2021
Postscript: Gradually, over time, she has become the sort of young woman who cleans up her own cheese spread and crackers. We've come through much worse moments, and many of them have been much less funny, and felt much less loving on both sides.
I still think she is the perfect daughter for me, and I am still full of pride and joy that she is my daughter.
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