I took a trip down memory lane this weekend with my almost-15 year old daughter. We managed to squeeze in a power-shopping trip between digging out sod in the front yard, the annual Memorial Day Folklife festivities and various and sundry other social activities required of a young lady.
It was a blast. We've got similar taste in many things, but I am most amused to report that shopping today for her reminds me ever so much of shopping for me in the mid 70's. Only the venues have changed, not the products or the intended feelings these clothes and accessories are intended to evoke.
Rustic, hand carved candles; gauzy, embroidered blouses; slouchy bags slung over the shoulder; personalized scents. Ahhh, the memories came flooding back as I recalled shopping for these items myself. I was once that tall and slender, I recall. Clothes that barely cover anything are layered for personal effect. I can see that she's got the eye for what makes her look spectacular. I revel in her delight, and praise her ability to find bargains and stretch her budget.
Ari is the child of my heart, not of my loins. I share her with her birth parents, the male half of which is my Truly Awesome Husband. As an adopted child myself, I have a deep and visceral understanding of what it is to be chosen, accepted, nurtured and raised, tenderly and and fully to a healthy adulthood. It is one of the most important aspects of my life, both as a recipient, and now as a parent.
As we scurried happily from store to store, hoping to beat the rain and find another treasure, I couldn't help but swell with pride. She's strong, she's decent. She treats others with respect, consideration and loyalty. She looks great in low-cut jeans and a couple of flimsy little shells. And she's mine.