print leggings. The outfit was a present from my younger sister Sid, who also gave Teddy Josefina. I’m ashamed to say I’m hopeful Sid doesn’t marry and have children of her own until my girls no longer need clothing or toys. Vel, my older sister, is in the same unmarried, childless, gotta-shop state and she, too, will delight me by remaining that way a few more years.
“Pizza?” Deena asked, peering in the mixer bowl.
“Want to help me put one together?”
“I’m not hungry. Tara’s mother made sugar cookies, and we decorated them like Easter eggs. We ate all the broken pieces.”
I’m always encouraged when my fourteen-year-old daughter takes part in childhood rituals. These days Deena’s a confusing blend of adult and child, and I’m never sure which Deena I’m talking to.
“Think you might be hungry in about an hour?” Deena shrugged, which I took for a yes. I added more flour.
“Where’s Dad?” she asked when I turned off the mixer and the kitchen was quiet again.
I told her the basics of our afternoon, including Ed’s double dose of antihistamines. She’s my daughter, so she’s used to drama and took all this in stride.
“Do you think he’ll sleep through dinner?” she asked.
“I think it’s possible he’ll sleep through tomorrow, too.”
“Then I guess this is a good time to tell you something.”
Warning bells sounded. They were so loud I was afraid Deena could hear them ringing in my head. “Can’t be good if you don’t want your father to hear it.”
“It’s not like that.” She rolled her eyes.
“What’s it like, then?”
“It’s just, he might be hurt.”
“Uh-huh.” Now that I have children those are my two favorite words. Someday I’ll write a parenting manual called Uh-huh . I’ll make bestseller lists.
“You always say that!”
“Uh-huh.”
“I quit the debate team.”
The kitchen fell silent again as I considered this. Deena joined the middle school debate team last year, after listening to Ed talk endlessly and enthusiastically about his own years as a debater. A delighted Ed has been with Deena every step of the way. He even chaperoned trips to debates in nearby towns.
I kept my voice neutral. “Isn’t there a tournament scheduled here in early May?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Wasn’t your dad helping you prepare?”
“He’s been trying.” Moonpie had escaped, and now Deena grabbed him as he walked by and cuddled him against her. “I told him I wanted to prepare by myself.”
Warning bells again. “Deena, when did you quit?”
A long pause. “A couple of months ago,” she said at last, without looking at me.
“And you didn’t tell him?”
She finally looked up from Moonpie’s fur. “Well, it’s not my fault. I just knew he’d make such a big deal out of it. And I didn’t want to get into a fight. I didn’t want him to feel bad, either.”
I understood. Deena and Ed had gone through a bad patch this past summer, and I could see that inviting another would be way down on her list of things to do.
“Your dad would have been just fine with your decision,” I said, because it was true. “Disappointed yes, but certainly not angry. All you had to do was tell him why you quit.” I paused. “Why did you?”
She looked away again, setting the cat back on the floor. “Because.”
“That’s an explanation?”
“I just wanted to, that’s all.”
“And your reason would be?”
“Why are you making a big deal out of it? I just don’t want to be on the team anymore.”
This time my warning bells were playing a concert. Something had happened, something Deena didn’t want to talk about. From experience I know that the things kids don’t want to talk about are the very things they should.
“Did you have a fight with Mr. Collins?” Stephen Collins was the middle school debate coach, an English teacher in his late twenties with wild dark curls and a grin for everybody. He was exuberant, funny, and passionate
“Pizza?” Deena asked, peering in the mixer bowl.
“Want to help me put one together?”
“I’m not hungry. Tara’s mother made sugar cookies, and we decorated them like Easter eggs. We ate all the broken pieces.”
I’m always encouraged when my fourteen-year-old daughter takes part in childhood rituals. These days Deena’s a confusing blend of adult and child, and I’m never sure which Deena I’m talking to.
“Think you might be hungry in about an hour?” Deena shrugged, which I took for a yes. I added more flour.
“Where’s Dad?” she asked when I turned off the mixer and the kitchen was quiet again.
I told her the basics of our afternoon, including Ed’s double dose of antihistamines. She’s my daughter, so she’s used to drama and took all this in stride.
“Do you think he’ll sleep through dinner?” she asked.
“I think it’s possible he’ll sleep through tomorrow, too.”
“Then I guess this is a good time to tell you something.”
Warning bells sounded. They were so loud I was afraid Deena could hear them ringing in my head. “Can’t be good if you don’t want your father to hear it.”
“It’s not like that.” She rolled her eyes.
“What’s it like, then?”
“It’s just, he might be hurt.”
“Uh-huh.” Now that I have children those are my two favorite words. Someday I’ll write a parenting manual called Uh-huh . I’ll make bestseller lists.
“You always say that!”
“Uh-huh.”
“I quit the debate team.”
The kitchen fell silent again as I considered this. Deena joined the middle school debate team last year, after listening to Ed talk endlessly and enthusiastically about his own years as a debater. A delighted Ed has been with Deena every step of the way. He even chaperoned trips to debates in nearby towns.
I kept my voice neutral. “Isn’t there a tournament scheduled here in early May?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Wasn’t your dad helping you prepare?”
“He’s been trying.” Moonpie had escaped, and now Deena grabbed him as he walked by and cuddled him against her. “I told him I wanted to prepare by myself.”
Warning bells again. “Deena, when did you quit?”
A long pause. “A couple of months ago,” she said at last, without looking at me.
“And you didn’t tell him?”
She finally looked up from Moonpie’s fur. “Well, it’s not my fault. I just knew he’d make such a big deal out of it. And I didn’t want to get into a fight. I didn’t want him to feel bad, either.”
I understood. Deena and Ed had gone through a bad patch this past summer, and I could see that inviting another would be way down on her list of things to do.
“Your dad would have been just fine with your decision,” I said, because it was true. “Disappointed yes, but certainly not angry. All you had to do was tell him why you quit.” I paused. “Why did you?”
She looked away again, setting the cat back on the floor. “Because.”
“That’s an explanation?”
“I just wanted to, that’s all.”
“And your reason would be?”
“Why are you making a big deal out of it? I just don’t want to be on the team anymore.”
This time my warning bells were playing a concert. Something had happened, something Deena didn’t want to talk about. From experience I know that the things kids don’t want to talk about are the very things they should.
“Did you have a fight with Mr. Collins?” Stephen Collins was the middle school debate coach, an English teacher in his late twenties with wild dark curls and a grin for everybody. He was exuberant, funny, and passionate
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