Semi Sweet Sixteen

Happy Birthday Sweetie!!!!
Grunt!!!

For weeks, conversations with my youngest daughter have been charged with excitement as she has engrossed herself in the official countdown to the moment at which she (hopefully) receives her driver's license. Precise, down to the minute. (There's an app for that.)

"Yep, in eight days, four hours, and eight minutes," she told me last week, "it's ba bye!" She says it with an almost spiteful cock of the head, an evil grin on her face, and a nasty little wave. If you can call the quick flapping of four fingers a wave. 

"I can't wait," I tell her. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out." And I give her my best approximation of the spiteful head cock and evil grin and nasty little four finger wave. These are quality conversations we have, usually in the car as I sit with my foot poised on an imaginary brake as she practices her driving and we take great pleasure in shouting all sorts of obscenities at other drivers who don't necessarily do things in the most intelligent way. We laugh, although she doesn't think it's all that funny when I yell butthead and the convertible top happens to be down. 

As of tomorrow, though, no more chauffeuring. No more putting everything and everyone on hold in case I am summoned for a pick up. No more hanging around at home waiting for instructions. It's no wonder I'm depressed. She claims I wasn't this upset when her older siblings got their licenses. Well of course I wasn't. The nest was still full. Sure, maybe I felt a pang or two, but it was such a long time ago, who can remember. As much as she hates to hear it, she is my baby -- the last of the three birds -- and when she flies, well, it's just gonna be me sitting around by myself on a bunch of twigs. I am terrified. 

My youngest and I, we have stuck these last few years out at home together, just the two of us. Sometimes, I feel as if we are not so much mother and daughter as sisters, even friends. Often, I know, she feels as if it is more like caretaker and mental patient -- you can guess which one she is. I told her soon she will be picking old mom up, dragging her off to doctor's appointments, sitting in on them so there can be someone with a functioning brain present to process the complex information. She told me she doesn't think that time is too far off. Charming. 

I wonder if her new license will affect our mornings together. I cherish our routine, and I would miss it terribly. While she is still asleep, I stumble off to Starbucks to write and pour down my first gallon of caffeine. On my way out, I pick up her drink -- a tall white mocha with whipped cream -- and race home to deliver it so she can enjoy it while she primps. I look for the light under the appropriate door -- depending on traffic lights and train crossings, she's either in her room or at her bathroom sink -- and knock softly. She opens the door a crack, just wide enough so I can catch the stab of her glare. Morning sweetie I say, smiling my most genuine smile of the day, as things generally start going downhill for me well before noon. She opens the door a tiny bit wider, just far enough so she can gently grab the cup from me. I am still smiling when she grunts and slams the door in my face. Okay, that's harsh. She closes the door emphatically. Still smiling, I mutter to myself as I head downstairs to pop some Advil. Butthead.

Well it's not like she tells me to go fuck myself or anything. Yes, it could be a lot worse. She is much more chipper when she comes down for breakfast. I attempt to make some idle chatter. She doesn't respond, but, again, she doesn't tell me to go fuck myself, so I just figure she's listening, hanging on my every word. There's kind of a twenty minute window during which she likes to leave for school, and I wait patiently for her to give me my three seconds' notice of our departure time. This usually happens when I'm in the middle of something, or, um, indisposed. 

I continue with my attempts at idle chatter in the car. Sometimes I get a nice chuckle, and she starts talking in spite of her gut instincts not to talk to crazy stupid people. Sometimes I get an eye roll. Hey, it's something. Usually, I get nothing, that is until I drop her off with a chipper have a good day sweetie. Without fail, I get a nice grunt in return. 

Thankfully, she cannot park at the school until she is a senior, and I know her well enough to know she will choose a ride with her idiot mother over driving herself and having to park far away. I like to think it's because, deep down, she will miss our morning conversations. I know I will.