That girl of mine wants so bad to grow up.
When it’s convenient.
And when it’s not painful.
And as long as it happens after she wakes up at noon.
(And when it doesn’t cost her money.)
Otherwise, being a punk kid with ass breath until noon is perfectly fine.
Her daddy has done a fine job of raising her. There’s no momma.
(Hasn’t been since she was 14 months old.) (Long story…she just left.) (Never looked back.)
That girl of mine is 15.
She can shoot a gun. She can swing a golf club. She can cook a mean meal. She can spike a volleyball. She can hit a homerun. She can ponytail it .07 seconds flat.
She can live in her room that I swear smells like dirty scalp and not bat an eye.
But there’s another side to being 15 that daddy has no clue about.
“How do you walk in those heels? My God they’re huge!”
“Why do you wear lipstick and why that color?”
“It cost HOW MUCH to get your nails done? I’m never doing that!”
“Why are guys such jerks?”
“When did you get to date?”
“Are my boobs supposed to stick up like this in this bra?? They look too big now! Make them go down!”
I give the best advice I can. And I usually shoot from the hip and Lord knows….I keep it real. Her daddy ain’t too keen of my so-called advice, but so far it works.
“Keep your clothes on and don’t smoke dope.”
“If he gets frisky, punch him in the nuts.”
“There are just things girls have to do that guys don’t. It’s just the way it goes. Trust me…there ain’t a man alive that could afford to be a woman.”
“Don’t be putting stupid ass pictures on Facebook. They will show up 15 minutes earlier than you at any job interview.”
Every day of my life, Keith thanks me for taking on this task of instant motherhood. And he’s genuine. And he’s sincere.
(Cause he doesn’t want to discuss Kotex and boobs. I’m no fool.)
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? I AM FREAKING LOVING IT!
Don’t give me an infant with a green diaper and spit-up…give me that teenager I can yank around by the ponytail and get nose to nose with while showing her how to balance and walk in heels without looking like a bobble-head penguin.
Still though. She whines about some of the stuff she wants to do but doesn’t want to admit she wants to do it because then that might make her kinda grown-uppish and heaven forbid she actually admit to wanting to be grown-uppish.
I felt it was time to do something with that brushy growth over her eyes. So, I wanted her to get them threaded after her haircut this last Saturday.
She wasn’t too hot on the idea because:
1. She’d never heard of threading (Big, hairy deal.)
2. She flounced around like she was dying and on her last breath the one time she tweezed one little bitty stray hair (Big baby.)
3. It was my idea (I have to look at those things.)
4. It was my idea
5. It was my idea
Needless to say…those hairy little bad boys were threaded. Oh, yes they were.
She did good. Better than I expected anyway. No kicking or screaming for Jesus. I was so proud.
So after that….I took her to get her pedicure because I was over looking at those 10 little chipped up purple toenails from 3-1/2 weeks ago.
(Plus, we have a big fat vacation coming up and chippy purple ain’t gonna work for me.)
And I picked out a really pretty red that almost looked like hot pink and well, I loved it. Feminine and bright and shiny and perfect for our big summer trip coming up.
(I had a gut feeling she was going to go in just the opposite direction.)
(Just because that girl of mine is 15.)
Me: “Oh, look at this one. I love it!! You like it?”
Cayla: “What about this one?”
Of course she did.
Because that girl of mine is 15.
Later that night, I was just getting into bed and was totally pooped from being on the road all day and fighting feet and hairy eyebrows and haircuts and traffic. She walked in, plopped a big ol’mug of ice cold milk on the nightstand and 3 warm, freshly baked, made from scratch, chocolate chip cookies were laid right next to it on a napkin.
Cayla: “Here. This is for you. Thank you for today. I had fun. I love you.”
Me: Totally speechless. A little teary-eyed…but speechless.
(Which her father was immensely excited about.)
Because that girl of mine is 15.