I don't remember calling in the troops!

Aging is rough. No, I don’t mean the wrinkles and grey hair (of which I have neither – thanks to great genes and pretty good hair color). We just seem to prefer things young (and, in worst-case scenarios, that gets folks arrested). On this side of the law, we ooooohhh and aaaaahhh over cuddly kittens, playful puppies and gurgling babies. It’s inevitable that someone will say “wouldn’t it be great if they could stay this way forever?” We just love “cute, affectionate and innocent.” That’s why we keep trying to desperately claw our way back from “beautiful, stand-offish and rebellious.” I’ve been quite successful at letting the pets grow up – I have a much harder time with my daughters. I’m entirely blessed with two great girls. They excel in all things academic and are almost always polite (although there are days when I’d like to yank the words from their mouths and feed them back one syllable at a time!). They’re actually mature beyond their years. I’m really proud of them and stand behind them 110% of the time. There are just those moments where I’d like to stand in front of them and push them backwards a few years. Do they have to grow up QUITE this fast?? I wasn’t a mother who stood on the sidewalk and sobbed the day each child started kindergarten. I’m not kidding myself here – the lump was firmly lodged in my throat and the tears threatened to overflow at any moment but I couldn’t cry. Feeling their excitement and seeing their joy, I knew it would be unfair to hold them back. So I let go… just a little. Life has been a series of those moments. First time you let them go to the park with a friend (without you), first time you let them ride their bike all the way around the block (without you), first time you let them go to a birthday party (without you), first time you let them walk to the corner store (without you). A good parent struggles with these things. A better parent understands that kids need to learn responsibility. They need to learn to make smart decisions. They can’t develop their common sense if we don’t give them the space to try. But DAMN it’s hard. Parents quickly learn that worry and permission are bitter rivals and they stage their battles in your brain, the pit of your stomach and your heart. Daily. My most recent struggle didn’t start out as a struggle at all. My older daughter just left on a class trip to New York City. She was ecstatic and, yes, we had to hear about the trip from the day she started school in September until yesterday morning when she got on the bus. To say she was excited is an understatement. I was pretty cool with the idea. We went through this exact drama last year when the destination was Boston. I’ve been to NYC several times myself and love it. It’s a place I thought she should see and, not knowing when I’d be able to take her myself, a school trip seemed like a great way to give her the chance. Then, the day before departure, my husband uttered these words: “Wow. Guess what I just found out? It’s Fleet Week in New York City.” HOLY CRAP! For those of you who aren’t familiar, Fleet Week (to most people) is an amazing opportunity to see some of the ships of the very proud US Navy, up close and personal. To me, Fleet Week currently means a gazillion horny, young Sailors and Marines converging on the same city as my soon-to-be-15-year-old daughter. Wonderful. Let’s put some perspective on this. I’ve known a few people in the Navy. One of them I know especially well – my husband. Discharged a couple of years ago, he has often regaled me with his stories of life at sea. Believe me when I say, amusing as they were THEN, they are not comforting NOW. My mind is looping a perverse reality show. It features a non-stop flow of white uniforms, running down the brow, in hot pursuit of beer and boobs – and I can’t change the channel. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not questioning the scruples of every Sailor. But let’s get real here. 15-year-old girls these days just don’t look like 15-year-old girls! At 5’8 or a little more, my daughter hardly qualifies as a “child.” However, on the inside – MY inside anyway – she’s still a little girl. When I mentioned Fleet Week, she laughed and wondered why I’d be worried about her being in the same place as a “bunch of old men.” That was before I told her that a fair number of those “old men” could be between the ages of 17 and 20. Then I worried more when she didn’t answer... just looked at me, really. I’m expecting her to bring home some souvenirs. I draw the line at which ones are acceptable. So, off she went. Onto that bus and into the newest struggle of her mother’s life. Letting her go to experience all that New York City has to offer to someone her age and having faith that people will take the time to actually ASK her age. I love her. I trust her. I’m counting on all the fairy tales, cowboy stories and Mr. Clean commercials to suddenly come true and it’ll turn out that the “good guys” really do wear white.