that I could still do even more lingered, I didn’t pay it much attention.
The fall afternoons at the library had me missing Brynn and the time we used to spend together. It’s one of those crazy truths about parent bonding that you can love your child desperately, totally. Understand her only superficially. And get along with her abysmally.
I had just finished examining an Excel spreadsheet on last quarter’s sale prices and checked my watch. On the East Coast it was late afternoon already and she’d be out of class. I picked up the phone and pressed her name on my speed dial.
She answered on the second ring.
“Hello, Mother.”
Her words were punctuated with a sigh, but she’d obviously checked the caller ID before answering. If she knew it was me and picked up anyway, it was a good sign.
“Hi, sweetie,” I said. “How was your day?”
There was a long moment of silence before her reply. “Fine.”
She didn’t return the inquiry, but I filled her in on my life anyway.
“I was at the public library today and I was thinking about you and all the hours we spent there,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“They were actually having a Bookworms meeting,” I said. “Do you remember Bookworms?”
“No,” she answered.
“Oh sure you do,” I coaxed. “It’s a third-and fourth-grade reading group.”
“Fourth and fifth,” Brynn corrected.
“Was it?” I asked, pleased that she did recall those days even if she wouldn’t admit it. “They all look so young. Carrying their Louisa May Alcotts and Judy Blumes.”
“Were they all skinny, gangly girls with braces?” she asked.
Of course they hadn’t been. Some were all pretty and precious, nymphlike perfection. Everything that Brynn had not been at that age. She got her looks from the Loftons—patrician lean, long-necked and graceful. But age nine to eleven, she was not at her best. I had wanted to help her, to give her confidence. But everything I did and said made it worse. Even now I tried lying to protect her.
“It’s an awkward age for every girl,” I said.
“Yeah,” Brynn agreed. “But I guess some of us just never get past it.”
In a way, she was right about that. That was the beginning of Brynn’s years in counseling. She’d suddenly been so unhappy. And her timing couldn’t have been worse. I’d just gotten to the place where I wanted to go on with my own life, pursue my own goals. I wanted her to need me less. It seemed as if she deliberately needed me more.
A child psychologist was a perfect solution. Why not delegate unfathomable teenage crises to someone with the knowledge and experience to deal with them? And it was certainly easier to pay for therapy than to figure out what was going on in my daughter’s head.
Now, eight years later, she was still in twice-weekly sessionswith no end in sight. The therapist knew her hopes, her dreams, her ambitions. I knew what the therapist wrote about her in one-paragraph reports.
Deliberately I changed the subject.
“You know that lady with the braids rolled up on either side of her head,” I told her. “She is still at the circulation desk.”
“I don’t remember any lady at the circulation desk,” Brynn replied.
“Of course you do,” I insisted. “You were always fascinated by her. You asked me if she was wearing hair earmuffs.”
“You make this stuff up, Mother,” she answered. “Anyway, nobody goes to libraries anymore. You’re supposed to do your research on the Internet.”
“Not everything is on the Internet,” I said.
“Everything that matters is,” she answered.
“Well, maybe I just like going there,” I said. “And I’m sure there are plenty of people who go to the library on your campus.”
“Sure, plenty,” Brynn replied. “They go there to make dope deals, though, not to study.”
The last was said for the specific purpose of unnerving me. It was my greatest dread that Brynn would get involved in drugs or alcohol. There was so much recreational
The fall afternoons at the library had me missing Brynn and the time we used to spend together. It’s one of those crazy truths about parent bonding that you can love your child desperately, totally. Understand her only superficially. And get along with her abysmally.
I had just finished examining an Excel spreadsheet on last quarter’s sale prices and checked my watch. On the East Coast it was late afternoon already and she’d be out of class. I picked up the phone and pressed her name on my speed dial.
She answered on the second ring.
“Hello, Mother.”
Her words were punctuated with a sigh, but she’d obviously checked the caller ID before answering. If she knew it was me and picked up anyway, it was a good sign.
“Hi, sweetie,” I said. “How was your day?”
There was a long moment of silence before her reply. “Fine.”
She didn’t return the inquiry, but I filled her in on my life anyway.
“I was at the public library today and I was thinking about you and all the hours we spent there,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“They were actually having a Bookworms meeting,” I said. “Do you remember Bookworms?”
“No,” she answered.
“Oh sure you do,” I coaxed. “It’s a third-and fourth-grade reading group.”
“Fourth and fifth,” Brynn corrected.
“Was it?” I asked, pleased that she did recall those days even if she wouldn’t admit it. “They all look so young. Carrying their Louisa May Alcotts and Judy Blumes.”
“Were they all skinny, gangly girls with braces?” she asked.
Of course they hadn’t been. Some were all pretty and precious, nymphlike perfection. Everything that Brynn had not been at that age. She got her looks from the Loftons—patrician lean, long-necked and graceful. But age nine to eleven, she was not at her best. I had wanted to help her, to give her confidence. But everything I did and said made it worse. Even now I tried lying to protect her.
“It’s an awkward age for every girl,” I said.
“Yeah,” Brynn agreed. “But I guess some of us just never get past it.”
In a way, she was right about that. That was the beginning of Brynn’s years in counseling. She’d suddenly been so unhappy. And her timing couldn’t have been worse. I’d just gotten to the place where I wanted to go on with my own life, pursue my own goals. I wanted her to need me less. It seemed as if she deliberately needed me more.
A child psychologist was a perfect solution. Why not delegate unfathomable teenage crises to someone with the knowledge and experience to deal with them? And it was certainly easier to pay for therapy than to figure out what was going on in my daughter’s head.
Now, eight years later, she was still in twice-weekly sessionswith no end in sight. The therapist knew her hopes, her dreams, her ambitions. I knew what the therapist wrote about her in one-paragraph reports.
Deliberately I changed the subject.
“You know that lady with the braids rolled up on either side of her head,” I told her. “She is still at the circulation desk.”
“I don’t remember any lady at the circulation desk,” Brynn replied.
“Of course you do,” I insisted. “You were always fascinated by her. You asked me if she was wearing hair earmuffs.”
“You make this stuff up, Mother,” she answered. “Anyway, nobody goes to libraries anymore. You’re supposed to do your research on the Internet.”
“Not everything is on the Internet,” I said.
“Everything that matters is,” she answered.
“Well, maybe I just like going there,” I said. “And I’m sure there are plenty of people who go to the library on your campus.”
“Sure, plenty,” Brynn replied. “They go there to make dope deals, though, not to study.”
The last was said for the specific purpose of unnerving me. It was my greatest dread that Brynn would get involved in drugs or alcohol. There was so much recreational
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