I have friends that visit me every summer with their two terrifyingly brilliant daughters, who are now roughly eight, and ten and fifteen-sixteenths years old. It’s the highlight of my year, and each visit makes me 1) very glad they’re my friends, and 2) very glad I don’t have daughters. I couldn’t handle daughters.
Sons are reliable idiots, basically. It’s not about intellect, it’s about behavior.
Sons will break bones, theirs and other people’s. They will ruin or fetishize cars, suffer infatuation and heartbreak, make your house smell like the decomposing underbelly of a wild boar, fly into sudden joyous or rage-filled activity with other people’s sons in person or via gaming, and empty your wallet and refrigerator hourly. Sometimes they’ll eat what they emptied, sometimes you’ll find plates filled with unspeakable, wasted piles of what might have once been food in their bedrooms, perhaps under a pile of clothing left on the floor a year ago.
Sons will only hug you when they’re sweaty or have just discovered the latest body spray that is available by the gallon. Sons will develop an early obsession with testicles and flatulence and thus will begin a life-long devotion. It is frankly a wonder that anything was invented by men ever, given what they’re always only thinking about.
But daughters will notice what book you’re reading, where you left your purse, who you’re talking to, and that you just took a Xanax.
Daughters are all up in your goddamned business.
Big Brother is actually Little Sister.
Both of my sons are quite smart, and while one of them won’t read, they both can. I say this proudly. But they tend to use limited language, like, “yes” and “no” and “what” and “I didn’t see your text.”
My sons are twenty-eight.
Meanwhile, these girls are talking about what will happen if their first choice career as a marine biologist/professional violinist doesn’t work out, which brand names match with which miniature foodstuff toys on a game, and how their father would have been a good surgeon because he’s good with his hands and nice to people1.
When headed to bed at night, they ask for their Kindles instead of sneaking pot lids under their PJs to use as shields in the upcoming battle they somehow think no parent will see or hear.
It’s bizarre.
The eight-year-old tried to roll her eyes at me the other day. This is when Aunt Marjie was forced to employ the “Look, Bitch,” finger, held high, and explain that I was rolling my eyes before she was born, and in fact, before fire and ennui were even invented.
I then had to explain that “bitch” was an expression of respect between equals as she seemed oddly shocked to be referred to as that. There’s no understanding these younger generations.
At any rate, she trained well, and now understands the LBF and pauses before continuing with her considerable opinionating. Not daunted, mind you. But there’s a pause in the force.
The only force greater than hers is her sister’s. At 1/16th away from eleven, she knows what’s up, which games she can win, and how to play the room. She has weaponized “agreeable,” at least in front of me, and it’s a thing of absolute beauty to behold.
My friends are visiting the new house for the first time. 10 & 15/16ths immediately warmed up to the place when 8 decreed it “gross” and I told her she had no vision. She told me she did, too, have vision, she could see perfectly, so I had to explain that the only kind of vision that matters can understand the value of a place that will, in the future, hold all the bougiest creature comforts just steps from the beach. That penny dropped with lightning accuracy and the mood around here improved significantly.
Also helpful for mood elevation were the many restaurants, ice cream, and candy sellers on my street, so they muddled through, the older one only occasionally forgetting herself and allowing her Voldemort Tween Face to show in front of me, while I chastised the younger one whenever she rolled her eyes by reminding her she owed me royalties each time she did it. These kids have cash from chores — I saw it at the candy store — and I have a lot of repairs to pay for. One can’t let royalty opportunities go to waste.
I’m hoping her parents haven’t noticed she’s taken up my hand gestures when she speaks. They’re very nice people, but not so nice they might not send one or both of them to live with me if things go too far. That would never do. The entire point of being an auxiliary grandmother/aunt type is that one gets to influence and then immediately give them back.
Besides, “bandage and threaten” parenting is far more my style. None of this “guiding and paying attention” stuff for me. That looks exhausting.
Morning Teasistisms
My friends did bring me the loveliest teacup for my collection. It’s subtle, but something about it speaks to the past year just perfectly, and it holds a bracing cup of the Irish Breakfast, straight and strong, like it means it.
I also found a designer-packaged licorice source, which is obviously a good thing. Even if you’re one of those who don’t like licorice, they have so many flavors that aren’t remotely licorice, like watermelon, and sour apple, that you, too, can fall victim to the packaging and buy way too many boxes.
I did not point out that neither of those traits is necessary for cutting up unconscious people.
Eye rolling is something I never quite achieved but I do a great raised eyebrow. Good hand movements are essential for anyone with Mediterranean ancestry. I am glad that you are teaching the basic skills.
a particularly wondrous essay .... so true about daughters and what they notice...(everything)