Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Probably I'm About to be Out-Adulted

In just a little over 24 hours, my Precocious Daughter turns 18.

I'm staring at those words on my computer screen, hardly able to comprehend them.

Feeling a bit old, obviously.

My beautiful little girl, who was nine years old when I started this blog, is on the cusp of adulthood. Which means I've been doing this blogging crap for almost half her life.

OK, that's a little depressing, given how much little I've accomplished with it. Bleah.

So instead let's focus on her.

PDaughter was in fourth grade back then. Now she's applying to colleges.

She loved riding her Razor scooter. Now she's bugging me to buy her a car (hilarious, since her top two school choices are in New York City and Berkeley, where she will never, ever drive).

She chewed with her mouth open, making gross chomping sounds. She...totally still does that. It's a terrible habit. And it's not like I haven't tried to break her of it. Lord knows I've tried.

Hey, she's almost a grown-ass woman. She can chomp if she wants, and let the crumbs fall where they may.

Good luck winning a Nobel Prize like that, young lady.

I think it was on her tenth birthday that I first exclaimed, "I can't believe you're (age)." I've said it every year since. A teenager? Sweet Sixteen? Old enough to see an R-rated movie without me?

An actual adult?

PDaughter's voter registration card arrived in the mail a few days ago. She just missed the last local election, but she's all set for the midterms next year. My daughter can vote.

I bought her $18 in lottery scratch-offs as part of her birthday gifts. She's loved scratch-offs for years, but now if she wins she'll be able to cash them in herself. My daughter can play the lottery.

If a Hollywood talent scout or modeling agent discovers her this weekend, she can sign her own representation contract, without getting my consent.

But NOT without getting my approval. I'm still Tiger Mom, and I will protect my cub from the sleazy operators of the world as long as I can. Grrrr.

I said, hold still.

I'll never stop being her mom.

And even though she'll no longer be a child, she'll always be my child.

That's exactly the kind of treacly cliched shit I never understood until...right about now.

So tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day here in the U.S. And the day after that is PDaughter's 18th birthday.

I know I can do this, because Bestest Friend did this less than eight months ago.

As of Friday we're both old bitches with grown-up kids.

Maybe once she's out of my goddamn hair I can concentrate on growing this writing gig into something significant.

JK...she'll never be out of my hair, and if I want to grow this writing gig, it's on me as a writer to stop playing the mom-card.

Did I mention I feel old as shit to have a grown child?

Wagging finger, threatening wooden spoon, and all.

Those of you who know: How is it done? What should I do?

Happy Birthday, Precocious Daughter. I love you with all my heart. Even when you chomp.


  1. I don't have a kid, but I've thought about some of this in relation to my nephew. As in: During the time I have been writing blogs, my nephew has learned to walk, learned English, learned how to socially maneuver the world, etc. What have I done?

    Granted, he's in a more learning-intensive period of his life than I have been. But it's so sad, too.

  2. No idea. Can't help with this. I'm paedophobic.

  3. Happy belated birthday to PDaughter. I can’t offer any parenting advice—our youngest is going to turn one in a couple of weeks and is still not fully housebroken—but I can offer life advice.
    When I turned 17 an older friend told me it would be a great year but that 18 would suck. Damned if he wasn’t right.
    Years later I realized it was my own fault 18 sucked, that if I’d approached it differently it could have been fantastic.
    That’s good advice at any age.

  4. My baby turns 29 next month! I am too young for that s#|7!!!


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