Datebook: Monday, November 27th ~ 2006

My daughter is in love.

Not the “Charlie White is the best” type of love where six girls, ages 16 through 20, sit around and vote on his best attribute (last count- 4 votes for sparkling blue eyes, 3 votes for razor sharp wit)(—okay, I voted too, but merely to use every opportunity to show my daughter how important it is to always vote and make your voice heard).

Not the “You are the best Mom in the Whole World--I Love You” love from a 2nd grade card spelled out in uncooked macaroni and glued on periwinkle construction paper.

Not the frantic devotion to Justin Timberlake and his N-Sync buddies, bopping and turning in unison to songs that seemed to have the same lyrics.

No, this is the “other” kind of love.

Not that she tells me about it, mind you.

I have tried to ferret out little tidbits, but there is no resemblance to a Barbara Walters interview confessional occurring in our conversations. In fact, the little bit I know comes from her Myspace account, which she rarely uses now, where she has changed her status from “single” to “in a relationship”.

My husband is oblivious of course. He doesn’t have to be, but he prefers to live in the dark and it is a game we all indulge him in. If he saw her thong underwear at the top of the wash pile, he would ask, “Why does she keep washing her skate laces?” To preserve his sense of balance in the world it was easier to just say, “Because she likes them clean dear,” then to force his mind to wrap around the cold hard facts of life—his daughter wears skimpy underwear.

So he is no help.

Having her move away to skate was hard enough this year. I have almost become used to her being gone in the 177 days it has been since the Ryder truck pulled up in our driveway. I told myself that children go to college at her age so it really wasn’t any different.

But it is. College kids come home for the holidays, but not so ice skaters. Oh, they give you a few hours or two days and fifteen minutes if you really want to count. But when you add in a boyfriend, the numbers start morphing into some type of algebraic formula where X rarely equals home.

But, I am okay with it.

Really. I mean, the guy is wonderful. He is funny, gorgeous, treats my daughter great, and very talented. Oh yes, he is a skater also. This makes life easier for both of them. They have plenty to talk about and commiserate on, and they won’t laugh at the other’s bumpy feet.

My husband, or course, doesn’t see a reason that either one would see the other’s feet and I just remind him that they might be changing from skates back to shoes one day until eventually he just nods and moseys on outside to hang up Christmas lights.

I told you, he is no help.

During my two days of the four day weekend, my daughter did go shopping with me on Black Friday. Of course this made it easy to find things that she would like to find wrapped under the tree. She, on the other hand, spent the morning shopping for her best friend and the man in her life. I reminded her that she had to think of something for her brother.

“Oh, he’s easy; I’ll just get him a shirt or something. It’s harder for the other two--I just want to make sure I find the right thing, you know, something really special.”

Ah, the quest for ‘special’.

In a little craft boutique, I found several stocking stuffers that were clever, cute and unique. I loaded up a small basket and met my daughter at the counter where I saw she had selected several of the same items that I had put in my basket. One was a small flip book with an “I love you” message which I thought of putting in the kids stockings at Christmas.

I quickly realized she had not made the selection with me or her brother in mind.

Oh.

That kind of love. Alrighty then.

This is really going to make Valentine's Day hard to shop for as a mom.

Mombo