Welcome to the Jungle

Where did she go?
This is the mos t pressing question in my life now, and believe me I have plenty.Of questions, that is. Where is my Stila Illuminating Tinted moisturizer?
What happened to my gold aviator sunglasses? I usually finally find them where I lost them…on top of my head.
Why can’t I locate my Coach boots, the ones with the brass side buckles, my Marc Jacobs silvery eyeliner or my favorite cuff, the one with an octopus adorned with teeny tiny orange crystals all over it? Where is any and all the loose change from the counter, in my purse and multiple old handbags stuffed in my closet? Where is my phone, iPad and coordinating chargers and the last Little Debbie and my only Coke Zero, which I thought I had cleverly hidden way back in the fridge?
I don’t seem to be missing any dirty laundry, dirty dishes, dirty looks or dust bunnies.
I do know who has “borrowed” them, of course. And therein lies the rub?
Just where did my little girl go?
My “little girl” was born 14 years and 6 months ago. She was stubborn, willful and wishy-washy from the start. She decided to come three days early– as soon as I sat down at Ruth’s Chris Steak House in Birmingham where her father and I tried to get in one last meal of peace and quiet to steel ourselves for the 18 years of drama, happiness, headaches and family fun soon to follow. Seriously, y’all. I didn’t even get my black cloth napkin stretched over my enormous belly or get to order the side of creamed spinach I was craving.
Then, she decided after 16 hours in the hospital that she didn’t want to come out after all. This is when they sent us home Christmas morning with all sorts of prescriptions to help me sleep “through” contractions even though not a single pharmacy was open. It didn’t take long before I was back in walking around and around the halls trying to coax her out. Three days, folks. Three whole days for her to decide she was ready. And she’s been at a full sprint ever since.
Now, I’m the one who’s not ready.
Actually, I take it back. The day her head spun around a full 180 and sparks flew out of her eyes with rage when I said there was no way I was running through the Starbucks drive through for a tall Caramel Ribbon Crunch Crème Frappuuccino with extra Crunch that costs as much as an ala carte side of creamed spinach from a fancy steak house, I was scared, y’all. Like, seriously frightened.
I cringe, and then secretly cry, when she says something hurtful to me…. knowing it’s hurtful…which hurts even more.
I have a silent pity party when she shuts me out, slinks off to her room or stares at her phone when I try to ask about her day.
My heart breaks just a little every time she grows a little more distant and a little farther away.
Charlie has a theory that this is all God’s plan. That just when they have stolen your heart so utterly and completely that you absolutely refuse to let them out into the big, wide world without you, they become raging, hormonal, back-talking, brooding, unpleasant teenagers who “borrow” all your stuff and are only nice when they need money. Now, you are picturing quiet Saturdays, available cash, noon time naps without slamming doors, civil conversations that don’t lead to screaming matches and a welcome lack of obscene charges for constant text overages. Don’t let the back door hit ya, right?
My mom agrees with this theory wholeheartedly, though she believes, as a devout Catholic, God has a wicked sense of humor. Evidently, we bounce right back to our agreeable, fun-loving, and family-oriented-selves just weeks before we leave for college. Then we never call home or visit.
But for me, the more and more she talks back, expresses herself, the more and more I don’t want her to grow up anymore and leave.
When she says, “You don’t understand me,” I want to be there when she says yes, “You do. You did all along.”
I don’t even mind the nasty looks or the eye rolls so much because sometimes I sneak in and watch her sleep, just like I did when she was little. And she looks just like she always has, an angel, my little angel.
Don’t get me wrong. There are days, actually multiple times a day, when I look at this 5’9” stranger in front of me and ask myself, “Who is this person and where did my little girl go?” The one who wanted to cuddle constantly, always told me she loved me before she went to sleep, craved my attention, sought my opinion, and told me what I wanted to hear…that I was the best and most wonderful mom in the world…. not that she hated me, that I was clueless, that I didn’t care or want to understand her anymore and never will.
But that’s just the point.
She’s doing what she is supposed to do. She’s questioning, stretching, making mistakes, having regrets, experiencing joy and pain…hourly, at the same time. She is squashing fear, trying to understand anger and when and how to suppress it, pondering, brooding, falling down, getting up and trying to make sense of senseless things while not losing faith in her future. She is doing what every single one of us did before her.
She’s becoming a grown-up.
And I am here, and will always be, along for the jungle ride…no matter how bumpy, quick, jagged, uneven, or rough.
I love you baby, girl.
I can’t wait to see the amazing woman you are destined to grow up to be.
And I can’t wait to see where you go.