In the months before I left home for college, my mother and I did a lot of shopping. We loaded up on loose fitting but neat crew neck Shetland sweaters, baggy Levi's jeans from the boys' department, and khaki pants that accentuated, um, nothing. It was bad enough that I was only sixteen; worse, still, that I looked as if I were twelve.
My choice of school was in no small measure influenced by my mother's opinions, which were, in no small measure, based upon, well, I'm not exactly sure. I was taught early on that mother knows best -- with father coming in at a close second, if only because he usually backed mother up. I assumed, as I always had, that I was woefully unqualified to make major life decisions about my own life, an assumption that carries with it the perk of never making your own mistakes.
By virtue of either benign neglect or a lingering skepticism about my own judgment, I have allowed my children to make their own major life choices and to risk making their own mistakes. In a few months, my youngest daughter and most of her friends will be off to the colleges they want to attend. Their suitcases will be devoid of Shetland sweaters and boys' Levis and androgynous khakis, and filled with clothing that accentuates, um, pretty much everything. They are eighteen (or close to it) and look every bit their age, and then some. If they choose to get married one day, they would never be caught dead in one of the puffy sleeved wedding dresses their moms wore. As unprepared as we are for their departure, they are more ready than we could ever have been.
We celebrated Spring Break in the Bahamas together, five moms, six girls. At dinner one evening, we watched the girls pile onto the karaoke stage and deliver a vampy and painfully dissonant rendition of a Beyonce hit. The one or two who can actually carry a tune were drowned out by the others, trumped by the exuberance of singing off key. At once startled and impressed by their confidence, we moms watched, speechless, as we held up our iphones to videotape the spectacle. Our babies, all grown up, strutting around in outfits our own mothers would have burned. The shutters had been thrown wide open, at least for a moment, giving us a glimpse of the world inhabited by our little girls, the innocent and bleary eyed teens we think we know, the ones who shuffle around the house in old sweats, hair piled haphazardly on top of their heads. Talk about dissonant.
I had anticipated spring break with my daughter's friends and their moms, women whom I have only known in passing for years (except for the one I never knew at all) with a mix of dread and excitement. Okay, not so much excitement as cautious optimism, and that only because the winter had been so horrendous. Back in the planning stages, I had toyed with the idea of not going. My daughter would ignore me anyway, and I was terrified the moms would too. Schoolyard fears, at fifty-four. Shame on me. Ultimately, I decided to venture outside my bubble and at least try to enjoy some climate change -- the good kind -- and maybe even some quality sleep.
As it turns out, expectations were fairly low all around. Middle aged women, all as nervous about fitting in for five days as our daughters are about beginning a life outside the nest. Even the girls admitted to having low expectations for the trip. As confident as they all seemed masquerading as mysterious womanly creatures who can sway provocatively and belt out songs off key, they are still little girls, just like their moms. The truth is -- though some might not admit it -- we all had the most fun when we were doing little girl things: jumping through waves, marveling at the sight of tropical fish, screeching down water slides, eating ice cream cones. Our daughters came home with the security of old friendships still very much intact, and we moms came home with the promise of new friendships that might even help us through the emptying of our nests.
Five Bahama mamas, six girls on the threshold of life, all bound together by a brief adventure that helped us learn a lot about each other and ourselves. Nothing lost, and a paradise gained, all of us singing off key, together.
