American Horror Story

Shit. Well...it seems my daughter is turning thirteen. Of course, I knew this was inevitable, and it isn't so much this in itself that I find horrifying. Sure, in the grand tradition of thirteen-year-old girls the world over, she has very little use for me...this is to be expected. She's smarter than me in some ways, which can be a little intimidating. I can no longer help her with her math homework, as she is taking high school-level algebra in the seventh grade, and, well, I just don't really remember that crap...or care to...but it has been okay, because Brian is kind of a Math Nerd by design. (At least both girls inherited some practical intelligence--you know, the kind that will allow them to one day support themselves--along with a dose of my love of books and snarky humor. They are undoubtedly more well-rounded then I will ever be.) She is practically glued to her phone...just as I was at her age, I suppose, only mine was plugged into the wall in my bedroom, so I couldn't be on it at the dinner table. No, none of this is especially horrifying...

But let me tell you what IS.....


She has a boyfriend.


YEAH.


I know, right??!!


Okay, okay, I get it...it was bound to happen. Girls get boyfriends, usually sometime around this age. But MY thirteen-year-old happens to look about sixteen. She's 5'6 and has this supermodel body thing going on that terrifies me...the worst part is, I think she's figured out that she's kind of hot. (While Emily is generally a really good kid and a straight-A student, she's always had this air of obliviousness about her that could, at times, be quite refreshing...certainly in the sense that I always felt like I was at least a few steps ahead of her.) Last week, I vetoed the off-the-shoulder shirt she was wearing, then later caught her trying to smuggle it out of the house to the ice skating rink wrapped inside a sweatshirt...not okay.

The Ice Skating Rink...let's discuss. The Ice Skating Rink is to 7th-graders what Kickingbird Theater was to us in the early 1990s. It was here that this boy--Dakota--asked her for her number last month. It's where she wants to meet up with him next Friday, after he gets back from California. (Hmmmm...awfully worldly for fourteen, isn't he?) Hopefully what's happening at the ice skating rink is far more benign than anything that was going on in the back row of Kickingbird Theater in the 1990s...but you know, I'm pretty sure Eric wasn't calling me baby back then, either. Ick.

So, my daughter has a boyfriend. His name is Dakota, and he calls her baby and tells her she's amazing. Okay, then...I'm not freaking out...much...

It doesn't hurt that my own boyfriend can certainly sympathize, as he's already been to that rodeo more than once. (Holy Monkey...are there really HALF A DOZEN children between us?! Better not think about that right now...) On the other hand, the idea of being in a relationship with someone who doesn't have kids and doesn't get what it's all about seems pretty ridiculous to me now...but hindsight is always 20/20, right? How often do we not know someone is wrong for us until we find someone who's right? I mean, isn't that what Emily is starting to do, in her own way? Testing the waters is what it's all about, really...even if his name is Dakota (North or South?) and he calls her baby. Seriously, ick!

I admit, it also doesn't hurt that I don't feel all that far removed from where she is...granted, I had her at 23, so I'm on the young side and can actually remember thirteen quite vividly...but I've also been there pretty recently, and the Adult Dating Spectrum doesn't always look much more refined than the Early Adolescent version. (People are fairly ridiculous. I'm just saying.)

So, my daughter has a boyfriend. Okay...she's also got me. And while she may not have much use for me in general, she tells me enough that I feel like I can trust her, and she seems to trust me. I guess that's the important thing, right? When she stops talking to me, I'll worry...

Until then, I'll watch...

Like a freaking hawk.