Mommy Really IS Dearest. Really.

"When your kids are teenagers, it's important to have a dog so that someone in the house is happy to see you." 
Nora Ephron, I Feel Bad About My Neck

The other day, I was complaining to my brother the psychiatrist about how, to put it mildly, my sixteen year old daughter and I are not getting along too well. He was amused, telling me that he had been wondering when the shit would finally hit the fan for us; he had long been puzzled by the unnatural ease of our relationship.

A highly trained professional, he urged me to recall myself as a sixteen year old. He used the technical term -- raging fucking bitch. Maybe, but I seem to remember having good reason to be that way. I was surrounded by assholes. My daughter, on the other hand, is surrounded by me. Doting, non-intrusive, funny as hell. She should be kissing the ground I walk upon, thanking God every day for sending her such an extraordinary mother.

As educated and well regarded in his field as he might be, my brother the psychiatrist is probably too emotionally involved to make a correct assessment of the situation, so I am going to seek a second opinion. But hey, I am as introspective as they come (another reason my daughter is so damn lucky), so until I find someone who can offer up a more rational explanation of our current strife I will ponder ways in which I might improve my behavior and become so extraordinary as to be completely beyond reproach. I have already vowed to cater to her every whim, to refrain from confronting her when she refuses to speak to me unless she needs something.

Project Mommy Dearest is going well, I think. Yesterday, as she sat at the kitchen table studiously ignoring everything I said, I didn't slam any cabinet doors, didn't well up with tears,  and I persevered with my efforts at quality conversation. When she somehow knocked her empty water bottle onto the floor, I said nothing as I watched her glance at it, shrug, and stare back into the empty space that is me. With great cheer and not a hint of exasperation, I picked it up and practically skipped over to the recycling bin to toss it. I stopped short of thanking her for giving me her empties; less is more when you are fighting sarcasm with every cell in your body. I watched her watch me fold her laundry, and greeted her with a chipper "hi sweetie" each time I returned to lug another pile upstairs. She said nothing, but that's better than saying something nasty.

The fruits of my labor are becoming apparent. When I drove downtown this morning to retrieve her from her dad's so she wouldn't have to take the train on a Sunday (in all fairness, she was willing, but if I am to be the dearest mommy ever I need to be consistent), I received a text from her asking if I'd like her to get me a coffee. I was bursting with joy. When she got into the car, she actually smiled; a real smile, with teeth, a smile accompanied by actual small talk. And no, I didn't know that most salad dressings contain anchovy paste, but I was thrilled that she was sharing this news with me. Note to self: head to the grocery store and stock up on anchovy paste free salad dressing. As we drove home, we continued to chat amicably, and at one point we both said the same thing at the same time. "I love those Whole Foods veggie burgers," we both announced, in unison. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

It reminded me of a day long ago, when I was in the car with my parents driving into Manhattan from Brooklyn. As we approached a busy intersection, my mother and I, in unison, recited the name of the bar on the corner. "Friar Tuck," we both said, with the same exaggerated southern accent. As I recall, it was the first words we had spoken to each other in at least an hour. I remember being amused; I remember my mother being ecstatic. Two words, spoken in two part harmony, had literally made her glow. It seemed a bit odd to me, but my mother was my primary target back then, the object of my utter disdain, so "a bit odd" was almost endearing.

"I love those Whole Foods veggie burgers." My heart was singing. My daughter, apparently, was not quite as moved by the moment. She was amused, yes, but a bit thrown. "I'm getting out of the car!" she said. I assume she was joking, since we were going seventy, but being on the same wavelength as mom didn't give her the kind of warm and fuzzy feeling that had so overtaken me I wanted to leap into the passenger seat and smother her with hugs and kisses. Anyway, notwithstanding her feeble effort to dismiss the magnitude of the bonding incident, there was no denying we had relocated some tiny patch of common ground. Cherished common ground, no matter how hard she tried to pretend it wasn't there.

A few minutes ago, she texted to tell me she wanted to pick up dinner for the two of us, and gave me a choice of restaurants. Be still my fragile heart. It's a good thing I still text with one thumb. I needed my other hand to pinch myself.