Daughter Drama

Let me just say from the beginning that I love my daughters, all three, every bit as much as I love my four sons. It's just that girls are more... high maintenance. My boys are like good old Ford pickup trucks. They are built tough and as long as you give them regular routine care (and keep their tanks full!) they will keep on running. My girls, on the other hand are like expensive European sports cars that spend more time in the shop than on the road, and have to have the $300 service rather than the $30 oil change.

Here's an example of what I mean.

My two oldest sons, both in high school now, never attended any of their middle school dances (with the exception of the eighth grade formal). My oldest daughter, now in sixth grade, decided that she wanted to attend the first dance of the year recently. I was happy to hear she actually wanted to do something social and didn't even freak when she told me she wanted to ask a certain boy to go. (I have known this boy since he was in second grade and he also comes from a large Catholic family. Good choice.) I did draw the line at calling his mother to ask her to ask her son. Sadly, before my daughter could muster her courage, the school announced that no one could "bring a date" in order to keep everyone equal and encourage "mingling" as opposed to dancing exclusively with one person. Probably not a bad thing, the way kids are forced to grow up so quickly these days. I digress...

A couple of days before the dance my daughter decides she needs a new outfit for this occasion. She, who almost lives exclusively in pants and shorts, is even willing to consider a skirt! I eagerly take her to the mall and we find a lovely (modest) knit dress in her favorite colors (brown and turquoise) and cute pair of skimmers to wear. She is prancing and swirling in front of my three-way mirror, when suddenly, the doubts start creeping in. What if everybody else is wearing jeans, she asks? I try to calm her, assuring her that she is not too fancy and looks beautiful and appropriate. However, we arrive at a compromise. She will carry jeans and a shirt in the car and after watching some others go in, she will change in the car if needed.


She starts preparing a good four hours ahead of time. When she comes to the door, I notice the legs of her jeans sticking out under her dress. To save time she says. We head out and stake out the parking lot at school. To my surprise, there are a good number of boys arriving. Unfortunately, the girls we spot, (6 or less) are all in jeans, but with really cute tops! The dress is doomed. She ducks down in the backseat and changes. Oh well. At least she can wear it to church.

I pull away from the curb, proud that my "little girl" is venturing forth with such confidence. (This is the same little girl that used to burst into tears because her brother "looked at her".) I immediately got on the phone to call my mother and share this momentous occasion.


I had just pulled into my driveway about 10 minutes later when the first call came in. I didn't recognize the number and because my slightly deaf, 84 year-old mom has no concept of call waiting, I let it go, with a vague uneasy feeling. I no sooner get in the house when the phone rings. I don't feel well, she says. Will you come get me? My first instinct is to say no, because I know her. This is a common practice when things don't go well. Even at her BFF's last pool party she did pretty much the same thing. Because I know her, I also know that she won't "get over it" any time soon and some teacher will be doomed to spend the evening babysitting her. So, I'm off to school.


The problem? Music was too loud, DJ was too loud, BFF wouldn't talk to her (meaning sit with her and ignore everyone else.) OH! And it turns out that MANY of the girls were wearing dresses AND makeup AND boots and she felt seriously under-dressed.


Today, the day after, things are back to normal (for the moment at least). Lessons learned? Dresses, okay. Make-up? Yeah, a little eyeshadow and lipgloss does not a hussy make. Earplugs, a must. Oh, and a nice glass of Chardonay afterward. (That's for my nerves!)