My daughter is 14

"When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished by how much he'd learned in seven years." -- Anonymous, erroneously attributed to Mark Twain

My daughter is 14. I remember being 14. I remember cutting myself away from my Mother. I remember feeling my friends were more important than my family. I remember wishing that my Mother would just stop paying attention to what I was doing. If she couldn't be any fun, then maybe she could just disappear ... no, I didn't want anything bad to happen to her. I still had nightmares about losing my family and the despair that caused. No, I wanted her to keep on living, to be there when I was hurt or at the end of my rope, on the off occasion when I was in so much pain, that I could actually show her ... but for the rest of my life, I just wanted her to disappear.

I remember my friend Joanne, she thought my Mother was so cool. Joanne lived across the road from me. She moved there when I was in the last year of elementary school and she was in the first year of junior high. We played together for the last week of summer, and then she went off to high school and we ignored eachother until I got into grade 8. Then we became great friends.

Joanne saw something in my Mother it would take me another 10 years to discover. I'd come home to discover her in my kitchen in some deep discussion with my Mother. I still am not sure how it really made me feel. On the one hand, I liked that Joanne enjoyed my Mother, and I liked that my Mother enjoyed Joanne. On the other hand, that was MY Mother, that was MY friend ... how dare they connect?!

I remember boyfriends crying on my Mother's shoulder after a breakup. I remember others thinking she was so pretty, so fun, so cool. I just wished her away.

My daughter is 14. Why won't she talk to me? I remember being the center of her Universe. I remember when all it took was a kiss from me to make everything better. When I walked in, I remember the most beauteous smile that would light up her face, as she jumped up from what she was doing, "Mommy!!!" she would call, and I knew no one was as important as I. I was the most amazing person, with the most amazing stories, she and I were inseperable. She was all I needed. I was all she needed.

I remember many years of feeling alone, feeling very lonely, and feeling that as long as I had Cairo, I could live my life through her. I poured my life into Cairo, my failed marriage, my failed aspirations, my failed choices, all lost their sting since I had her, my perfect, golden ringletted, rosy cheeked, little darling.

There were road trips, and field trips, and day trips, and birthday trips. I loved my life as her Mother. I felt that I had found my calling, to be Cairo's Mother was the best I could be.

There have been many ups and downs for Cairo and I, a failed marriage, moving away from her father, losing one of our dogs, moving away from our home, taking on a new stepfather, a new stepmother, two new homes, a third home in the US ... it all takes it's toll. I see friends becoming more important than I, a need for her to pull away from me, I am no longer the center of her Universe, I am not nearly as cool as I once was, as necessary as I once was. Frankly, in Cairo's eyes, there is just nothing I can do to be cool.

There are parents she thinks are way cooler than I am. They allow their kids to drink alcohol, skip school, have alcoholic parties. She blames me for changing her life, for leaving her father, leaving her home, her neighbourhood, and her dog. I am not so wonderful in her eyes, not like I once was. When she is hurt, she turns from me, hides in her room. Where she once poured her heart out to me, she now guards herself against me. "I'm not like you Mom!" she exclaims, "I don't need to cry over everything!" If I get upset or want to protect her, she pushes back at me. I am not welcome there. This is now the territory of her friends. No Mothers allowed.

My daughter is 14. I remember being 14. I think it's harder this time.