Sunday, January 11, 1998

Don't tell her she doesn't have a life

EDITOR'S NOTE: Sharon Randall is on vacation. This column originally appeared in August 1993.

By Sharon Randall

Recently my daughter suggested rather strongly that I should get a life. She later tried to take it back, to soften it, but no. Anything can be forgiven, but there are some things that, once spoken, can't be taken back; some words that can't be softened. I did not take it lightly.

Get a life? I beg your pardon. You can accuse me of many things, I'll admit. But don't tell me I don't have a life. I have more life than I know what to do with: A job, a family (one husband, three children and a neurotic dog), a house that defies order and a yard that deserves Agent Orange for a gardener. I even have a few friends. If I had more of a life, I'd be dead.

But we define life differently, my daughter and I. She is 18, and I am, well, old enough to be her mother. We live in the same house, but on entirely different planets.

I always thought we had a lot in common. Until lately. This is a summer of betweens: She is between high school and college; I'm between the asylum and the poor house.

Things are supposed to be different, but neither of us is sure how. We're still mother and daughter. But the job descriptions, roles and rules, everything's changing. Frankly, I'm confused.

Apparently, I am still supposed to support her financially; but I'm not to question where she's going or when she's coming back. I'm to be available when she needs me; but I can't expect her to be available at all, because, hey, she is not my little girl anymore. She has friends, she has a job, she has a life.

I was 18 once. In 1966, 18 may not have looked the same as it does now, but it felt the same. Or close. I remember it all: The idealism, the energy, the 20-inch waist. The sense of immortality, of never growing old. The maddening need to be both dependent and independent. The crazy tug-of-war with family and friends.

At 18, I thought I knew everything; and if my mother had ever known anything, she had long since forgotten it due to extreme old age. She was 40. Talk about needing a life. I told her she ought to get out more, have some fun.

"I work Monday through Friday," she said, "clean my house on Saturday, go see my mother every Sunday. I don't need fun, I need help."

The summer before I left home for college, she couldn't be content with her own life; no, she had to keep meddling in mine -- asking where was I going, when was I coming back -- things I thought I shouldn't have to answer because, hey, I was not her little girl any more. I had friends, I had a job, I had a life.

Yes, I remember 18.

I suspect what my daughter meant to say was not that I need a life, but that I need to get my nose out of hers.

And that is what I intend to do, as soon as I can figure out how. I intend to live my life and stay out of hers, in the hope that she'll ask me in on occasion. I don't need a life, thank you, I have one. But I will always need, always want, to be a part of hers.

I also need to tell my mother that I think she's a lot smarter than she used to be.

But she still ought to get out more often.

Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards.

Scripps Howard News Service