The End of an Era

Some memories are so deeply etched into our brains that we know we will never, ever forget them. Some are joyous--the moment my baby was handed to me and I set eyes on my daughter. Others painful--when each of my parents passed away, or the moment I heard about the attack on September 11.

I'm not sure yet into which category this falls.

The hubby picked up the teeneager from school. I thought she would do her usual routine of snack & rest (secret teenage code for texting and IM'ing with friends, I believe), but instead she plopped down in the recliner. "I need to tell you something," she announced, "and I need you to NOT freak out." Even though the pause here lasted only a second or two, hundreds of scenarios raced through my brain, NONE of them in any way good; got into a fight at school, started a fire (she does enjoy a good fire, like her mom), talked back to a teacher (sometimes I think she would be justified), drugs, pregnancy. How can the brain manufacture THAT many thoughts in such a small amount of time? I'm sure every drop of blood in my body has drained to my big toes at this point. "Get on with it!" I'm screaming in my head, but I'm almost certain (???) I said "Yes, ok honey. What is it?"

"A boy asked me to prom, " she FINALLY speaks. I think I involuntarily breathed a small sigh of relief. Again, some details have been changed in order to protect ME.

My questions:
"Who is he?"
"How old is he?"
"Where does he live?"
"How do you know him?"
"Who are his parents?"
"What is his blood type?"

Hubby's question (notice singular--not plural):
"Do you want to go with him?"

Her answer? "Yes."

It sunk in then and there--she no longer believes that boys have cooties.