Datebook: Saturday, August 26th ~ 2006

Here is the second biggest problem of being the mother of a skating girl (I say this with a pause because of the whole Britney Spears song), they seem to grow up so much faster than non-skating ones.

Maybe it is the competitions.

Maybe it is wearing bra inserts in their dresses since they were 12.

Maybe it is asking them to perform to Latin music since they were 13.

Which brings up the “two words” my daughter presented to me last week, without gift wrap, or phoning ahead to see if I had room at the inn of my mind.

Before I write them out for all to read I must preface this with the concept that my daughter, being my daughter, is an oxymoron herself.

She is soft/hard.
She is funny/serious.
She is tenderhearted/ she is “that’s life, let’s move on”.

Teenage boys have not been able to stand up to her scrutiny.

She has mowed them with a Tiffany machete. I have felt sorry for all of those who made the feeble attempt to get her attention. I think her prom date may actually be in therapy now. Their downfall is that they try to impress her by acting, well, stupid.

She, a non-graduate of the Henry Kissinger school of diplomacy, says,
“Why are you acting stupid? Call me when you’re not trying to imitate a 3 year-old.”

With that benchmark I was lulled into thinking that I had another ten years before I had to worry about, or absorb, a serious relationship. She seemed to have set the bar pretty high because even the aforementioned prom date didn’t do it for her. He was the reigning king “Hottie” of his school but he made two serious mistakes. He told her he didn’t think skating was a sport, and he told her he liked to hunt. I heard this from the other room and immediately turned up the thermostat knowing the deep freeze was en route.

So, getting back to the two words. You’ll understand now how I was broadsided with them.

And I blame this all on the bombardment of the Tango this year.

She was discussing events and a specific guy when she said, rather calmly I might add upon reflection, “We have this sexual tension between us.”

In real life, there is no rewind button.

So you just repeat it. “Sexual Tension.”

“You know,” she says.

Well, I’m not going to admit to her that I may have forgotten, but I guess I know. Still, it sounds so much more exciting the way she says it. It sounds kind of Catherine Zeta Jones-Antonio Banderas-like sexual tension in Zorro (the first one).

But this is my daughter. My daughter who suffers no fools.
There are boys who will never burp the alphabet or do armpit flatulence noises again without feeling like they will be shocked from an invisible collar.

Sexual Tension!

So as a mom, I must warn you. Dressing them up, sliding in some bra inserts, putting on make-up are only the beginnings. Having coaches tell them to listen to the tango, imagine the tango, feel the tango—will turn a 17 year old into a woman seemingly overnight.

I must ask the Coles if this was how it happened for them.

Where is the Hickory Hoedown when you need it?

Mombo #9