We don’t have a strict curfew for our seventeen-year-old daughter, but we do have one rule: she must wake us up whenever she comes home.

I demand more than the rumble of the garage door opening, more than a breezy, “Hi, I’m back!” from the hallway. I need skin-to-skin contact, to have her shake me awake, to hear how the dance was or what kind of sushi they ate.

“But you’re asleep. I’ll just turn the hall light out instead,” she protests. “What difference does it make?”

“I like to hear about your evening,” I say.

I don’t want to tell her that one difference is smell: illicit smells of pleasure and danger, like alcohol or cigarettes or marijuana or sex.

Another difference is sight, a once-over for pupil size and red rims.

Is it vigilance in the guise of love? Or love in the guise of vigilance?

Yes and yes. Perhaps they are no different.

But I know I will sleep more soundly after the exquisite pleasure of hearing about her evening, kissing her goodnight, and knowing she is safe.

By Lorrie Goldin

Labels: Lorrie Goldin, teenagers

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# posted by Writing Mamas Salon @ 12:01 AM