1/19/2011

My dear daughter has been back at home for about a week now and it’s actually been a little difficult for me. Not that I don’t love having her around or know in my heart it’s where she belongs, it’s that she brings a storm with her. She’s not depressed anymore, so I’m not talking about a black cloud that surrounds her, I mean life just doesn’t seem orderly. She keeps odd hours, her room is a mess, her cats are roaming around and knocking things over, she forgets to put things away (I’m not excusing her—I truly believe she either forgets or doesn’t notice the stuff I do), she doesn’t remember how to make her bed, and there are empty containers in the cupboard and fridge.

I’m a bit of a neat freak, as you can probably guess, and lifestyle-wise, my daughter and I are very incompatible—though I totally adore her. It’s so hard to explain. She wasn’t gone very long, but it didn’t take me long to decide I loved the calmness, organization, and total lack of chaos. I also loved a clean, cat hair-free existence. My daughter can make a decent home look like a fraternity house in ten minutes—she may hold the world record.

I decided not to go back to curfews and normal rules since she’s already lived on her own and I can’t take that away from her, but I haven’t slacked off on my constant, pathological checking up. At this stage, I just want to hear her voice or see her text message to know she’s okay and to relieve my parental anxiety. I make no excuses to her about it, and she said it’s nice to know someone actually cares—but I don’t have to worry so much.

My daughter has been very pleasant, agreeable, reliable, and respectful. She gave me a new nickname—Mama Bear—and I love it. She’s even gladly introduced me to many of her new friends, most of whom I like, and told them I’m the most important person in her life. Either she’s a entirely new person or there’s something brewing. I prefer to believe the former and live in la-la land. After what we’ve been through, it’s a nice place to come home to.