Yesterday The Girl and I spent the day together.
While this may not seem to be such a strange occurrence to most of you mothers of eighteen-year-old young women, let me hasten to add the following.
Both of us are still alive.
Which is truly saying something, being as ours is a wonderful, volatile, relationship.
We started out with breakfast at a favorite diner, then went to find the "perfect" shoes for her upcoming dance this Saturday. Unfortunately, the "perfect" shoes eluded us for several hours. Either they were too matronly, too "slutty," too high, too low, too ugly, too plain, or too a-gazillion-and-one other things to be considered THE ONE PERFECT SHINING PAIR.
Finally, we found them.
They were a size too small.
At this point I was considering whether The Girl was indeed the Princess or the Wicked Stepsister.
We purchased the size-too-small shoes and proceeded to the dress shop. The Girl wanted to have the dress for the dance hemmed and she thought she could use the too-small shoes for this purpose and then we could drive over to the far side of town in order to exchange the too-small shoes for the same shoes in a half-size larger.
Of course, the too-small shoes would now be the only-a-little-too-small shoes.
The dressmaker couldn't fit us in right then, so we went - you guessed it - over to the far side of town to exchange the too-small shoes for the only-a-little-too-small shoes. Then we ate lunch and headed back to the dressmaker, who took all of five minutes to figure out where the hem needed to be.
It can be exhausting, this mothering business.
And because it can be exhausting, Her Highness of the Only-A-Little-Too-Small Shoes and I then went for a mother/daughter pedicure.
And we lived happily ever after.
Without killing each other.