I can’t just pick up the phone anymore. I used to be able to pick it up at any old time, dial, and speak. That privilege is no longer in my life as of the last month.My preteen daughter has discovered the telephone as a communication device. It is not enough to have playdates (do we call them that anymore?) and email. Even IM (instant messenger for those of you not tech-hip) leaves the voice intonations lacking. No, the telephone rings constantly now.
Fortunately it is still just girls calling, talking about boys I imagine. And for some reason, the phone rings three or four different times during one conversation. Not sure if it is potty breaks or what. So I have learned to not answer the phone. It’s rarely for me anymore.
I have patience so far. I remember being in seventh grade with the receiver hanging off my ear. I have an image of myself lying on the pistachio-green carpet in the formal dining room with my feet up on the wall, chatting with Debbie about absolutely nothing, twirling the phone cord through my fingers. It was connection; it was society. I will not deny that of my daughter. But it’s only been a month.
Earlier today she asked if she could walk down to the store with her friend this afternoon. Here she is, almost a teenager, and she has never walked out of our neighborhood unescorted by an adult. She's traveled on her own with her class trip, but not to the store around the corner. That is not unusual. When put against my peers, I am no more protective about such things than any of them. My daughter has a friend who lives nearby (but across a busy intersection) and we as mothers still walk our girls back and forth. And the other girl is almost as tall as me. It is less a sign of overprotection and more a sign of the times.
In response to her request to go to the store, I told her I had to think about it and talk to her father. What am I afraid of? Let me count the fears. I am afraid of the white van pulling up to two attractive young girls and being off with them. I am afraid of her running across the busy street and miscalculating oncoming traffic. Pretty much the same things that I was afraid of when she was two. Nothing much different there.
Maybe it is time. I am open to her growing up. It allows me more freedom to discover myself again outside the role of being a mother. I do trust her judgment in crossing the street. And the odds of that white van being along the quarter-mile distance during the five minutes they are walking is arguably slim.
She is still waiting for my permission. Mainly because I am unable to call her father since she is still on the phone.
Epilogue: Dad made the call with a decisive, "No way! I don't want some creep in a van picking them up." I suppose I needed a few things at the store anyway. They can disappear on their own while I shop. Baby steps.