1/21/2011 Yesterday, I stayed home from work because I didn’t feel well—backache, stomachache, headache. It gave me an opportunity to spend the morning with my daughter in a non-rushed, like-old-times kind of way. She was in a great mood, represented by how gorgeous she looked when she got ready for work. She had such a big smile and looked so pretty that I took a photo of her and posted it on Facebook.

Off to work she went in all her glory, maturity, and confidence. I was proud to have such a magnificent daughter and thought, “Finally, we’ve arrived at a good place. The hard work has paid off.” I continued my day—resting, cleaning, doing whatever I needed to do to feel better.

Fast forward to the evening. My daughter texted me that she would be spending the night at her friend’s house and that she loved me. I responded that it would be okay, and I loved her back. I went about my business, having a mellow evening, watching American Idol, checking my e-mail and Facebook accounts, and relaxing. With everything in order, I took two Advil PMs for the pain, turned the ringer off my phone, and read my book until I fell asleep.

My alarm went off at 6:30 and, groggy though I was, I got started on my day. I happened to look at my cell phone and I saw that my mother had tried to call me at 6! I panicked because that could only mean one thing—that she or my stepfather was in trouble. My stepfather is dying of emphysema and I thought for sure she was calling to tell me some awful news. But there was no message—which is unlike my mother. I called immediately and she said she and my daughter were pulling into the complex.

Turns out, the police called my mother (I told my daughter I would not take any more of these phone calls and would not come to her if she got in trouble). I guess the police insisted on calling someone, so they bothered my 74-year-old mother from her sleep. Really, it was my daughter doing the bothering—the police were doing their job. I told my mom she should’ve let the police take her in, but my mom doesn’t know how many times we’ve been through this because I’ve not told her anything. She thinks it’s the first incident, so she thinks her granddaughter will learn her lesson from this scary incident. Little does she know . . .

What a surprise—she didn’t sleep over her friend’s house; instead, she was with two boys from work who were up at 5:30 a.m. smoking pot in her car.  An alert neighbor called the police because my daughter lit a sparkler and they were nervous. That’s her story, along with, “I wasn’t smoking; I haven’t in SO long; I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” The truth is in there somewhere, but I’d need a savvy translator to help me find it.

Not sure why she wasn’t allowed to drive her car home since they didn’t give her a citation of any kind, but now it’s her problem how she’s going to pick up that car and get to work, and make sure she saves her job. She earned a promotion that starts in three days. Did she blow it? That’s where it becomes my problem, unfortunately.

When she entered my house, I told her that I’m ashamed of her, that she lied again, that I don’t trust her, that she needs to get her act together, and to simply not talk to me. I don’t deserve this, she doesn’t deserve my support, and I didn’t raise my children this way. At the moment, I don’t care if I was too harsh. I’m disgusted. She agreed with me and was sad, apologetic, and remorseful, and told me this was the last time (this is the fifth last time, by the way). She doesn’t like this and feels ashamed that her beloved grandmother is involved now. I had no time to deal with it because I was getting ready for work.

So I had to write this piece at work because I can’t concentrate until this is out of my head and in black and white. I’m angry, frustrated, disgusted, and don’t want to tell anyone. Everyone thinks I’m such a great mother, but look how my daughter behaves! Same &^#$%, different &^#$% day.