The next few years were very hard for Kate. She started failing in school. She started withdrawing. She started hating me in little ways. But I deserved it. I behaved horribly as a mother. I was irresponsible and angry most of the time. I didn’t put her first. I worked too much and justified it as a necessity because I was a single mom. What a bunch of crap—I was just trying to escape.
But we had good times, too, when we were very close. Every Friday afternoon I picked up Kate from school and we either went to dinner and then a movie or we rented a movie and got a big salad bar at the gourmet grocer. Then we’d spend the evening lying in the hammock with the torches burning around us. We’d listen to Ella Fitzgerald and make up stories. We’d go shopping on the weekends and eat out. There were good and bad mixed together and we were swimming in it like amniotic fluid. We didn’t know how bad the bad times were, and we probably didn’t know just how good the good times were. We were both just trying to get through it without falling apart. We were survivors, clinging to each other in a battered life raft, our arms the only thing holding each other together.
Kate’s early teens were rough—for her and for the rest of us. She was angry. She was flunking all her classes. She was lying and getting into trouble at school. She was choosing BAD friends. And she may not have hated me, but she was sure letting me know how easy it would have been to hate me.
I was remembering being pregnant a lot. I was thinking about all the days in my early pregnancy when I was thinking about having an abortion. Remembering that helped me deal with how angry I was at her most of the time. I remembered all the cute and funny things she’d say and do. I remembered hating my own parents and wishing I could run away and live with another family. I kept telling myself, we’ll get through this.
It took me a while but I eventually picked up on the fact that parents sometimes have to make sacrifices for their children. But I was (and still am) so far from super saint. I fall a lot. I make bad Kate choices. Sometimes I’m not on “Team Kate.” Sometimes I know I should just listen and not speak.
But here she is! At 17! She’s been home schooling for the last year and her final grades are amazing. A’s and B’s. I’m so proud of her I can’t even stand myself. I think if the “Baby Brigade” were sitting outside my front door, I’d put on something pink and stupid-looking and join them.
Kate is so beautiful it sometimes hurts my eyes and my heart to look at her. She has such an amazing profile, and her eyes are dreamy and dark. Her hair is thick and healthy and she’s finally leaving it alone after dying and cutting and perming and frazzling and dreading. She refuses to do anything artistic, but I know she’s a great writer, and she’s an artist, and she loves music. She has a cool, kind of funky style. She’s self-conscious and yet she’s bold. She’s a little shy but her sense of humor is so wicked. She’s tall and strong and her heart is so good.
I am beyond just being a proud mom who totes around a wallet load of pictures. I don’t have 47 perfectly manicured photo albums that I can drag out, but I do have 17 years of perfect love I can call on at a second’s notice.
I just left writing this to wake her up. We have a big day ahead of us. I’m taking the whole day off. First I’m taking Kate to lunch, where I’ll give her one of her presents. Then we’re going to the Science Museum to act like kids. Next we’ll stop and get a coffee and I’ll give her another present. Then we’re heading to Cheekwood to visit the garden photography exhibit (Kate loves horticulture). We’re going to get an ice cream after that and I’ll give her another present. Then we’re going to see the film Nacho Libre (because there’s still a little South Park left in us). We’ll go to dinner at Bongo Java because it’s funky and informal, and I’ll give her another birthday present. Then we’re going to see a French subtitled flick at the Belcourt. After that we’ll come home and hang out on the porch. Maybe we’ll play Scrabble.
