Remember that old rhyme, “A son is a son until he takes a wife/A daughter is a daughter all of her life.” Not to diss on my sons because I am still close to both of them, but the daughter part is spot on.
My daughters are four-and-a-half years apart in age. For much of their young life, they shared a bedroom—the age gap was just enough to make that difficult, but there was no other choice. In the mid-1980s we moved to a long, low ranch-style house and converted the two-car garage into a bedroom the boys shared (that was a disaster of sorts, but that’s another story). For the first time, the girls had their own bedrooms, adjacent but separate. By then they were something like ten and fifteen, with wildly different habits and interests.
Megan was in that teenage phase where she’d slam into her room and avoid all of us. Her room was a mess, but a wise person told me to pick my battles and, for the most part, I chose to ignore the chaos of dirty clothes and an unmade bed. Jordan, on the other hand, was still in the “Yes, Mommy” phase, which I enjoyed. When Megan would throw a teen tantrum, I’d look at Jordan and say, “You won’t ever do that, will you.” Her answer was always, “No, Mommy.” In later years she did it in spades in her own way, but that too is another story.
For some reason, my good intentions as a mother overcame my common sense, and I allowed Jordan and her friends to spray paint whatever they wanted on the walls of her bedroom—I was shocked by some of the language. Megan thought the whole thing disgusting. Jordan tells me she once walked through an apartment complex on her way home from school, only to see Megan sunning in Jordan’s pink bikini. To this day, she says, “She stole my bikini!” Megan had a series of boyfriends; Jordan was just beginning to think boys might be interesting. Megan dieted; Jordan did not. I could go on.
To say that they were not close is an understatement. But somewhere along the way, they made up—and then, gradually, they became best friends. This past weekend, as I’ve said, Jordan went to Austin to celebrate Megan’s fiftieth with M’s girlfriends. She reports a wonderful time, and she sent a picture. Not the usual numerous pictures she usually sends, but just one. Makes me wonder.
At a John Mayer concert
They are both dippy about him and travel wherever
to hear him sing. Beats me!
They call each other, “Sister.” When anything of note happens around here, Jordan quickly says, “Let’s call Sister.” Be it good news or bad. And sometimes I find out they’ve been talking behind my back. They’re still different in many ways—Megan, a lawyer, and Jordan, a luxury travel consultant. Megan likes to cook; Jordan pretty much lets Christian or me cook whenever she can. Megan is an avid football fan, especially if TCU is playing; Jordan doesn’t much care. But both are essentially cheerful souls, gregarious, with a positive outlook on life. Both like to lunch and shop and sit by the pool soaking up the sun. Both are the mothers of sons, which gives them a lot in common. (If karma really worked, they would have daughters to repay them in kind—I long ago decided boys are easier because you generally don’t know what trouble they’re into; girls are in your face about it.)
My girls truly love each other. (Well, all my kids love each other, and family reunions are high on their lists, so pandemic is especially hard on us). I am so blessed that the girls are such good friends and that they often include me in their adventures—and long lunches. I’m proud of them and just wanted to brag a bit on them.