Old School

My daughter requested a punching bag for her birthday. My husband asked me where we should hang it.

"How about around my neck," I said.

She wanted it for Christmas, but Christmas came and went with nary a punching bag in sight.

When her aunties asked what their niece wanted for Christmas, I didn't hesitate.

"Plastic," I said, conjuring that guy from "The Graduate."

They obliged with a deluge of gift/credit cards that made the pack that attacked Alice look like runoff. Christmas was two weeks ago, I haven't seen my daughter since. But she texts regularly from various coordinates in the mall.




Now it's her birthday, we're back to square one. Not to worry, not that square one. I'm happy to report my daughter's been speaking to me for several months now, and has assured me she's canceled the hit man. Whew. Apparently you can take out a contract on just about anyone these days through Facebook, or is it Ebay? Whatever, technology rocks.

Some people get their rocks off pounding the shit out of inanimate objects — my dream of meeting Michelle Bachmann in a dark alley some day comes to mind — and more power to them. I, however, am old school. I prefer pounding the shit out of myself. Less collateral damage.

In this matter my daughter is also old school — she prefers pounding the shit out of me, too. Or, rather, she used to. Her request for a punching bag is a sure sign of impending maturity (Google "transference"). Although until today, she reminded me regularly of that "impending" status.

"Mom," she said, "I'm still fifteen, no one will hire me."

All I did was wonder aloud if she could handle a fulltime job in addition to homework and Hulu, is that too much to ask?

"You're a sophomore," I said, "it's so...sophomoric. Plus, do you really need eight hours of sleep a night? Can't you get by with, say, three or four? Like Bill Clinton? And make up for it on the weekend?"

It was just after this conversation that my daughter put in her request for a piece of boxing apparatus. Did I mention we've been communicating better lately?




But that was then, this is today. The cat's out of the bag, Pandora's out of the box, the eagle flies on Friday — my daughter has turned Sixteen! I never thought I'd see the day. Don't get me wrong, I knew she'd see the day. I just figured I'd be pushing daisies by the time it arrived.

I remember the day I turned Sixteen! as if it were yesterday. Make that yestercentury. In those days it was customary to give a girl a special gift to mark the occasion. My parents gave me a ring, my best friend gave me a book of poetry, my boyfriend gave me a hickey the size of Iowa. I'm just saying. Maybe I can't remember if I put on underwear this morning, but my longterm memory is still intact. I know what Sixteen!-year-olds are like. It scares the shit out of me.

So regarding my daughter's (Sixteenth!) birthday: while the days of lockets and watches and rings may be behind us, I just can't wrap what's left of my mind around the idea of a punching bag. Or a Planned Parenthood gift card. Or a fifth of vodka. For me. What's a mother to do?

For awhile I considered giving her a surprise party.

"No one's ever given me a fucking surprise party," I said, and my husband said, surprised,

"So give yourself one!"

Except life's just one big fucking surprise party after another, am I wrong? Looks like it's back to square one. But not to worry, not that square one. My daughter's Sixteen!, parties are old school. She's discovered plastic. Call it square two.