My fifteen-year-old daughter reminds me just how very old I am. My simple little life is based on routine, security, and contentedness. We have lived in this lovely little bubble of hermit-like behavior for almost sixteen years. Now that my daughter is fifteen and a half, you must include the half because it makes a world of difference (said with sarcasm and an eye roll). She believes she needs a social life. Social, as in she needs to be around other people, preferably her age, most preferably off the farm. Sigh. Being that The Bean is only fifteen and a half, she relies upon The Bibbed Wonder and me to taxi her to wherever she demands. She cares not one iota that our Saturdays begin at three in the morning. She still has no concept of time or need for sleep. Oh, to relive those days of ill-spent youth and energy. Regardless of my desire to come home from the market, take off my bra, put on my p.js, and nap for several hours, I am forced by my tyrannical child to put on my bra and pants that don't have an elastic waist, fix my hair, put on make-up, and people while standing in forty-degree weather after the uncivilized hour of eight p.m. I am officially old.
I was forced against my will to attend night number two of The Ox Hill Fair on Saturday night. I already attended The Ox Hill Fair on Monday night. Did I mention that I attended the Indiana County Fair on Saturday night the week before? That is two weeks in a row of being out on a Saturday night after attending the Ligonier Farmer's Market. Two weeks in a row of being out past my bedtime, making myself presentable, and socializing at a fair. Did I mention I am not a fairgoer? Fairs are loud, filled with a lot of people, most of whom I don't know, delicious food that now makes my tummy hurt if I even think about eating it, and are primarily outside events. None of this appeals to me. Not when I could sit under my favorite quilt, in my favorite temperature-controlled room, with a good book, not wearing a bra or pants with zippers, my feet in fluffy socks, and ice on my swollen knee. You see, the Universe decided to reinforce the fact that I am indeed old and no fun by making me well aware that I am old and out of shape and overusing my body parts by giving me a sore, swollen knee after a week of climbing up and down a ladder while I painted my downstairs. I have self-diagnosed my condition as bursitis, not because I know what bursitis is, but because I think it's a funny word and one I relate to "old people" conditions. I like to say it with a bad southern accent and poor grammar, "I've got me a case of THE BUR-sitis!" The Bean merely laughs at my discomfort and makes fun of me while I try to climb into the ridiculously high truck her father insists we drive to fairs.
Don't get me wrong, I love the idea of a county fair. I one hundred percent support local 4-H programs, handmade product competitions, introducing and celebrating the rural lifestyle, and old-fashioned fun. However, I prefer to support these ideals, not on a Saturday night. The Ox Hill Fair is a lovely little fair organized by wonderful people. It is a fair that dates back to 1936. Originally, it was held on private land at the peak of a steep hill named Ox Hill. The fair is now held at a different location, and the efforts to rebuild and maintain this annual tradition are impressive. It is truly a lovely little fair that is family-friendly. My bib overall wearing wonder buns knows everyone in a three-county radius. He spent much time talking with people he hadn't seen in years. I spent time playing with other people's children and getting my baby fix. This act only made me long for the days when my darling girl rode in a stroller, laughed at funny faces, and thought I was the sun in her Universe. Sigh. Now, she walks past me with friends, and if I dare to make eye contact, I am given the stink eye that communicates, don't you dare embarrass me in front of my friends. Kids are dicks. Sigh.
As I stood firm on our decision to leave at 8:30, two and a half hours of social time being quite enough, I was teased and tormented for my gimpy knee, my growly disposition, and my monster bag of cotton candy. I informed my teenage tormentor that I sacrificed for her happiness and social interaction and that she should be nice to me. She thanked me by hip-checking me and laughing as I wobbled on my bursitis-ridden knee. Kids really are dicks. As she threw her arm around my shoulders and informed me I was the best, and she appreciated us taking her out on a Saturday night, I knew my sacrifice was worth every ounce of effort. She's a great kid and always appreciative of our efforts. Don't get me wrong, I think she's a dick sometimes, but she's mine and I love her.
As much as I love her and want her to have normal, healthy, and safe social interactions, I asked that we do nothing on Saturday night next weekend. She grudgingly agreed and made a crack about old folks needing time to rest and ice the BUR-sitis. I will have a rare weekend of uninterrupted time with my daughter. I will suggest a movie night filled with fall-themed movies: Practical Magic, You've Got Mail, The Age of Adaline, Simon Birch, or Second Hand Lions. However, I will probably get voted off the island, and we will end up watching some gruesome horror flick. Sadly, she and The Bibbed Wonder have the same taste in movies. Whatever we watch will be fine with me as long as she sits on the couch beside me, chewing popcorn loudly in my ear and making fun of my swollen knee while she refreshes my ice pack and mocks my faux case of THE BUR-sitis.
I know that my time with her is limited. She is in an era where she values friends and their opinions over her parent's opinions. She desires to be out and about with friends and to be seen by the public rather than sitting at home with old mom and dad. I'm okay with this. I know this is a normal phase and won't last forever. Many weekends, I sacrificed time with friends to hang out and watch movies with my dad. He would chastise me for wasting my time with him when I should be out doing "young people stuff." Funny, I never considered it a sacrifice, and I don't regret one minute being "wasted" with him. Hopefully, my bean feels the same.
On this seasonal Monday, stay safe, be smart, make the sacrifice, enjoy the time you have with those you love, and keep washing your hands.
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