My Kind of Town, Sort of

"You're funny, mom."

An epiphany last night, from my youngest daughter, the one who still lives with me every day. She knows my habits -- how early I wake, how little I sleep, what I like to eat, how I revolve around the needs of a blind dog, that driving for long distances puts me to sleep. She knows, in the deep recesses of her sixteen year old brain, that I will go to the ends of the earth for her, even when she treats me with disdain ninety per cent of the time. She knows too much, maybe, about my role in the break up of my marriage, and she knows precious little about the other side of things. And, as my older daughter would point out, that sucks for me, but that's just the way it is.

I went downtown yesterday to have dinner with my oldest daughter, who lives there, and my youngest, the one stuck in suburbia with me. When I am with the two of them, I often feel like the odd woman out. Their sister bond is so strong I can almost see the secrets pass between them, the stories they have told each other when I am out of earshot, the grievances they share -- mostly, I assume, about me. My guess is they speak infrequently of the times I have held them, eased their pain, licked their wounds. Why discuss that when it's so much more interesting to discuss the ways in which I have screwed them up? I get it; I have spent years examining my own mother under the same skewed microscope.

It was a beautiful night and we sat outside at a trendy restaurant, our waiter flirting shamelessly and periodically bringing us extra treats to try. A little wine took the edge off for me, and, as the meal progressed, I began to feel almost as if I was part of the conversation -- not just there to pay. I discovered my older daughter is both the keeper of all our stories and the teller of many, to each of us, separately. In the complicated triangle of our relationship, she is, oddly, the shortest distance between me and her younger sister. Sometimes a straight line is just too far to travel.

We walked along the lakefront after dinner, enjoying the sights and the sounds and the perfect August evening. I said something -- I can't for the life of me remember what, but my guess is it was inappropriate, something moms don't tend to share with their daughters -- and my youngest burst out laughing. Hence, the epiphany: "Mom, you're funny." My older daughter reminded her, as she has many times, that I can be a good person to talk to. That she can actually tell me things, reveal confidences, and I will not judge. That I will never cast stones, and will, more than likely, just make her laugh, make her feel okay.

Time spent downtown tends to stir up in me some unproductive, not to mention irrational, thoughts. Jealousy over the time my older daughter gets to spend with dad, who lives just down the street. Nostalgia for a youthful existence in the big city. A feeling of somehow being left behind, not living the well-heeled condo life downtown of suburban empty nesters my age. Last night, as I often do, I had to remind myself not to idealize a life I am not yet ready to live, not when there is still work to be done in deep dark suburbia, not when there is a teenager at home who relies heavily (as much as she doesn't know it) on the humdrum certainty of my routine. I would not have it any other way.

Nope, it's not exciting at all. But at least she knows I am funny. That's a start.