Mallville, USA
by Karen Williams - Oviedo Voice - Oct. 2, 2003
I have several weighty issues on my mind these days: Will stability come to Iraq? Can we cool it with global warming? Is the economy rebounding? And should my 13-year-old daughter be allowed to meet her friends at the mall?
Actually, that last question was answered recently when said daughter, Emily, (possibly not her real name) explained that I had four choices: (a) I could drop her off at the mall and make myself scarce; (b) she would get a pet cobra; (c) she would pierce her eyelids; or (d) she would spend quality time with a surly, unemployed 20-year-old guy she met at the Slurpy machine at 7-Eleven. As a result of the way she worded that, I decided maybe the mall wasn’t such a bad idea. But as I drove Emily and a friend to their destination, I suddenly found myself riddled with cataclysmic thoughts - those nagging worries that hangout in a universal cloud of scariness and descend on us parents every 45 seconds or so. It was time for some grown-up reminders.
“Don’t talk to strangers,” I began. “Don’t talk to non-strangers. In fact, don’t talk at all. Oh, yes, and phone me every 15 seconds.” The rear-view mirror revealed that the girls were doing some sort of eye-rolling exercises in the back seat - perhaps something they’d learned at school.
I continued: “Don’t act flirtatious, silly, rowdy, or as if you’ve had no breeding. Don’t tell anyone your social security number. Don’t eat sugar. Don’t loiter. Don’t crack your knuckles. And for heaven’s sake, don’t stick your gum under a table at the food court.”
The girls winced. They knew I could see into their very souls. I dropped them off at an entrance, and as they ran to connect with other friends, I yelled, “I’ll pick you up right here at EXACTLY 9:00 p.m., and if you’re not here at EXACTLY that very minute, I’ll call the police, the sheriff, and Judge Judy!”
The girls pretended not to hear while passers-by stared at me as if I were some wild-eyed neurotic. What did they know? They’d probably never had a 13-year-old daughter - never laid awake at night fretting about the perils of the Internet, the length or lack-thereof of their daughter’s shorts, or whether she was somehow finding a way to snort Kool-Aid and get high.
I parked the car in an undisclosed location and pondered what to do. Should I don trench coat, floppy hat, and dark glasses and enter the mall to discreetly monitor the girl’s behavior and safety? Or should I trust that all was well and head home to await 9:00 p.m., stopping by Dairy Queen for comfort food? The idea of a Blizzard won the day, and I moseyed along.
When I reached home, the phone was ringing. I dashed in the door - was it mall security? The sheriff? Perhaps the fashion police who had gotten wind of my trench coat idea? No, it was Emily, and the girls were ready to be picked up early!
As I returned to the mall, I sternly lectured myself about ever worrying, and I greeted the girls cheerily.
“Hi, Mom,” Emily began. “Don’t take us home. We want to meet some friends at the bowling alley now.”
I sighed. “Does the saying ‘Give ’em an inch and they’ll take a mile’ mean anything at all to you?” Emily looked concerned.
“Mom you’re pale, you’re stressed, you’re not making any sense, and you have Blizzard breath. Just drop us off and go have a good cry or something.”
That “or something” was a trip to Taco Bell after I left the bowling alley. I may not have this parenting thing down to a science, but at least I won’t waste away in the process.
Copyright 2003, Karen Williams
