My daughter turned 18 over the weekend. And just like that my charming distraction is an adult. As a mother to two mischievous teenage daughters, it is with some relief that one has now placed a foot firmly into adulthood.
Even with the sudden death of my husband in July, and my daughter’s tears on the morning of her birthday, taken as a whole the years have been mostly peacefully melodic, with their own hum and rhythm. I remember one day, sitting at my desk in San Francisco, during the Junior High years, I pull up Instagram to find photos of my then 12 and 13 year old daughters and five of their friends playing on the roof of our second story house while my $20 per hour nanny sat peacefully down stairs playing video games.
Crashed cars, shattered chairs, destroyed phones, cracked iPads, lost computers, missing cashmere sweaters, playing five sports per year, and so on.
18. An adult. Thank goodness.