For Aubrey

This story is actually a bit of a cheat. I have two mothers; my mother, Pam, and my stepmother, Barb. My relationships with them are a bit complicated, a little telenovel with a splash of Gilmore Girls, so instead, this story is about the lesson my daughter taught me.

My daughter and I are mirror images. Stocky build, dark wavy hair, blue eyes in what the Chinese call a ‘moon face’, which is really just a nice way to describe a round head. I though was, and still am, substantially more awkward than she ever has been. She is quiet and brilliant, I was a know-it-all, ready to regale with obscure facts and disturbing minutia. This was a fact when I was in kindergarten, when I was in sixth grade, maybe even still today. I am that weirdo at the party who doesn’t know how to make small talk so I tell you that male lanternfish will latch onto a female and gradually bodily fuse with her until he is just a lump of testes pumping out sperm.

As a child, I loved music. I sang in the church choir, I belted it out in school, in music class, talent shows, assemblies. While though I was blessed with enthusiasm, I was not blessed with a pleasant voice. I sound a bit like a wounded badger. I never was given the solos, not asked to do a special hymn. So, sixth grade, the height of my awkwardness. I am wearing hand-me-downs, not even handed down from my own family. (Ask a poor friend if you don't understand) I had self-dyed my hair with hydrogen peroxide, and instead of the blonde highlights that Mademoiselle had promised, I had carrot hair. I would randomly blurt out the statistics for perishing in a lightning strike. I have given up that I will ever have my own song. Then there was band. I was a percussionist. Not great but still pretty good. And the great thing about a percussionist is that you are the only harp player, or marimba player, bongo drums, or cow bell. So, almost everything you play is a solo, just within the larger concert.

I loved band. I may have been at the bottom of the social heap but at least I wasn't alone. We sweated together in Summer Band Camp, cheered each other on at State, and we never went to a football game alone. We even had capes, amazing 30-pound black capes with golden interior. There aren’t enough opportunities in daily life for capes. Yes, it was super geeky before American Pie made is some fetish. But I was one of the multitudes. One amongst my tribe. It made me realize that I could be smart, that I could be sharp, that I could be well-read, or just odd and it was okay. I am 47 years old and I would join a band tomorrow if one called me.

So, my daughter, my Aubrey. Sixth grade, she looks like I just stepped out of a time machine. She is her own swan amongst the ducks. So, band tryouts, she showed some talent, and they asked if she wanted to join. She though had no interest. I thought though she just didn’t know what she needed. I signed her up to play a trombone. A forty pound, five foot long case full of elephant farts is how she describes it. Spoiler alert: She hated it, and still brings it up years later. Art and pretty girls are more her things. I seemed to have forgotten that she is more popular, more self-assured than I was at her age. She knows who she is becoming, I have yet to this day arrive.

And that is what I learned from my daughter, that not everyone's life raft looks the same. Maybe you (and I) have raised our daughters to be strong enough that they can swim on their own.