(She doesn’t even attend the high school.)
My eight year old to me:
I don’t fear my enemies, but sometimes… you really scare me.
Then tonight, as I descend the stairs, I see a fast-moving flash of black. The hallway bathroom door clicks and locks.
“I know you’re in there.”
“Sorry, Mom. It’s reflex. You scare me,” Kate says.
What do they mean? Well, these bookend daughters mean two different things. Eight year old is referring to mom sounding like jet take-off upon finding that nothing she has requested be accomplished has, in fact, been accomplished.
Sixteen year old means, “I am afraid you will have a job for me which I will procrastinate until you threaten to take away my 2500 text messages per day or the keys to the car.”
Scary or abysmally normal? I ask you.
I’m walking in the mall with my three daughters: 16 (also in heels), 12 (sporty tennis shoes) and 8 (sandals).
All of the sudden The Blonde One, 8, kind of trips forward because she’s scuffed the bottom of her rubber soled sandals on the tile. I laugh because I DO THE SAME EXACT THING and I’m 36. You just can’t look classy in heels when you’re tripping forward. I laugh “It’s genetic! I do that too, Gwyn.”
Then I say, “I also kick the inside of my ankles when I walk. I’ve got bruises.”
The sixteen year old looks at me incredulously. “I have SCARS.”