Soldier Boy, the New Vanilla Ice

A certain someone in our household celebrated her fourteenth birthday over the weekend. 

Fourteen.

Yikes.

She had six of her friends over for a party on Saturday.  Watching them it was crazy to see how much things have changed. 

And how little.

At my thirteenth birthday party my friends and I plugged a boom-box into an outlet in the garage and stood in the driveway shakin’ our groove thangs to Vanilla Ice.

As in Ice, Ice Baby.

On Saturday Torri’s friends plugged her iPod into an iHome set up on a table in the backyard and lined up on the patio, shakin’ their own groove thangs to a song called Soldier Boy.

At my thirteenth birthday party (which happened to be a sleepover held in the garage to accommodate both my wish for privacy and the large number of attendees) my dad got very little sleep because he was too busy standing guard nearby.  He may have had to chase away a boy or two who might  have come tapping at the garage door late into the night. 

Don’t put me on record here but it might even be accurate to say that my friends and I were given a ride in the backseat of a police car that night after having snuck around the block and across the street to T.P. the house of a certain boy who may or may not have scorned me.

In the way eighth graders scorn one another of course.

Anyway…

Thankfully Torri’s party was WAY less eventful.  But it was humbling to see how completely uncool I’ve become.

I really don’t understand it because I think that as far as hip parents go, I’m like, way up there on the cool meter.  For real.  You’ve seen how I dress.  I listen to adult alternative music (country too, but I’m looking for cool points here).  And I’ve got youth on my side.  You’ll remember that I was merely 16 years old when this kid was born.  So if there is a cool mom out there, I’m it don’t ya think?

Yeah, the girls at Torri’s party?  Not so much.

Every time I opened the sliding door to the backyard to deliver more snacks and goodies, it was like all the air was suddenly sucked from the patio and those poor little dears were left dead silent (probably gasping for air or something).  And when I tried to interact, in any way, shape, or form, my witty one-liners were left hanging in the air like lonely morning fog.

Ouch.

When did I  become the odd one out?

Long ago apparently.

It was fun to watch Torri with all her girlies though.  I told Jeff that if he ever wondered what I was like as a teenager he need look no further than the first bedroom on the right.  I swear this kid is my clone.

And, as you might have guessed, that worries me slightly.

But I’m holding out hope that over the next few years when it comes time to make some really tough choices, she’ll do better than I did in the same position.

I have a feeling she will.

She’s just like me in that she views herself as a princess.  She’s moody too.  Sneaky and cunning.  And her sense of humor (though hard for me to relate to now) is the mirror image of what my own was at her age.

And while she is  like me in countless ways, she’s different too.

She has a good head on her shoulders.  She seems to understand consequences more than I ever did.  And I’m counting on that quality of hers to carry her through.

I know she’ll stumble.  I know she’ll falter.  Don’t they all?  I have faith, though, in who she is, and who she is becoming.

This first baby of mine has dealt with some hurdles already.  More than I would have liked.  Everything happens for a reason though right?  I have faith that those hurdles have taught her a lot already.  And that with each passing year she’ll go on to surprise and amaze me.

Ideally that surprise and amazement won’t come in the form of a police escort home in the middle of the night. 

But whatever.  Beggars can’t be choosers.