Whenever I despair that my daughter seems completely lacking in manners, poise, and empathy, my friend reminds me that how kids are at home is a poor measure of anything.

“Does she have friends? Do teachers like her? Do other parents want their kids to hang out with her?” my friend inquires.

Well, yes. Still, I fret. Who raised this child? Why doesn’t she jump to clear the table at her grandparents’? Why must she be browbeaten into mumbling hello to dinner guests? Why does she seem more inclined to watch The Travel Channel than to save the world?

“Because she’s a teenager?” ventures my friend.

Other people have teenagers. I have a living indictment of my parenting skills.

But wait a minute.

Recently, when our vacation was jeopardized by Expedia’s incompetence, my daughter asked, “Can I do anything to help?”

Twice in the same week, she unloaded the dishwasher without being asked.

She brought me an extra set of keys when I locked mine in the car, even though rescuing me might have made her late to work.

And when I asked if she wanted me to drive her back to college instead of sticking her on a plane, she said, “Do whatever’s easier for you.” (Of course, that answer means I am driving her. Such a smart girl!)

True, the world is yet to be saved, but there’s hope. Perhaps I have not failed as a mother. Perhaps she’s just a teenager who is growing up. Perhaps aliens have come in the night and snatched my daughter, replacing her with some zombie look-alike.

Whatever the reason, I thrive on these glimmers.

By Lorrie Goldin

Labels: Lorrie Goldin

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