She Arises Like Aphrodite

She arises every morning like Aphrodite, beautiful and triumphant, from a sea of clothes strewn on the floor. You can’t imagine how gorgeous she looks, coming out of that pit of hell that is her bedroom. Her jeans shredded in all the right peek-a-boo places, hugging her hips. Pastel T-shirts cropped to reveal a few inches of her six pack abs. Dark curls cascading down her shoulders. Long, black eyelashes fringing husky eyes, and full, red lips. She is, if not a goddess, at least a princess. And I, as the Queen Mother, have nobody to blame but myself.

She is my seventeen year old daughter, Maggie. It didn’t help that when she was born, I knew she would be the period at the end of my mothering sentence. This exquisite baby girl, with chestnut hair, navy eyes, and the fattest chipmunk cheeks on the planet, was allowed to sleep in our room, at an age long past when her two brothers had been relegated to the crib in their own room. She was adored by her two aging parents and two blonde-haired brothers. She was Maggie Muffins. Miss Maggie May. Maggie the Princess Angel.

And really, I only saw faint hints of the willful iron fisted personality that was to come. When I put her in her car seat, and she screamed for the duration of a long ride at the indignity of being strapped in. And whenever I took her in the stroller, not when we were outside in the neighborhood with the sun and the birds, but the moment I entered a mall, and attempted to direct the carriage into a store and her limbs would begin to flail. At those moments, I might have looked into my crystal ball and shuddered. But what good would it have done for me to peek into the future? The deed was a fait accompli, and all I would have been able to do was live it, as I have. Better for me now to remember the glorious, sunny childhood giggle days. The dolly baby cuddle days. Especially now, when to be in her presence, is to know how the monarchy must have felt in days of old when they used taste testers to avoid being slipped stricknine. True, she doesn’t hate me on all days. Not when I am taking her to Mary Lou’s for a Girl Scout Mint Cookie iced coffee with extra whipped cream. And certainly not when we are in Victoria’s Secret and I am buying her a form fitting aqua t-shirt that says something like, Girl for Hire.

But you should see her when I ask her a question about her plans for the night. Or who she is texting on her phone when we are in the car and I am hoping to chat. And worst of all, when I tell her, what to me, is so obvious I’m sure she already knows, that her room needs to be picked up. Actually, picked up and dumped somewhere in a landfill ~ but I would settle for the clothes being folded and put away. I would be thrilled if the make-up ~eyeshadows smudged on carpet, powdered blush dusting the vanity, was put back. If the bed, with the Tommy Hilfiger comforter that matches the beach theme of the room, was ever made, I would probably buy her a car. As it is, I just keep buying her more clothes to throw on the floor.

Who can say where I crossed the line between loving indulgences and indiscriminate over-indulgences? Was it when I replaced her lost dolly baby with three of the same type? Perhaps when I drove to every McDonald’s on the south shore to collect each week’s new promotional Beanie Baby with Happy Meal? It might have been when I began to rearrange my plans with my husband on the weekends so she could go to middle school dances. More likely, it was all these things, and the hundreds of other decisions I’ve made to see her smile, or have her throw her arms around my neck and hug me, or tell me “Thanks Mom, you’re the best.” So I’ve created a princess who threatens to overthrow the Queen on any given day. You watch her stride down the hall each morning, filled with confidence and poise, knowing she is adored in her Universe, and tell me I was wrong.