Mama MIA!

For those of us who’ve opted to have babies later in life, the teenage years confronted by an advanced middle-age parent is not the stuff of dreams. My own child—the very picture of innocence in pre-Raphaelite ringlets and patent leather Mary Janes, delighting New Yorkers with her quaint (to their ears) “ya’lls” and “yes ma’ams”—was a wonderful child until the onset of hormones, no doubt brought on early by our estrogen-rich diets and too many Reese’s Pieces. She transformed before our very eyes, her eyes wide with terror. Given I was following in my mamma’s path of earning the title of Mrs. Permissive, her truculent behaviors came as quite a shock. What? I am the popular mom! Children love me! Make that strangers’ children. My own has spent the last two years denying any blood relation with me and is even looking for her biological parents. She is not adopted, and I have the C-section scar to prove it. (My daughter claims that scar is from an appendectomy. She wishes.) A producer has been shopping around a reality TV show about me called “The Nine Lives of Marcia Sherrill,” and she is counting on a viewing public enjoying my various eccentricities—all in glorious high definition.

I may be a teeny bit different but so was my mother, and I don’t remember a time when I was embarrassed of Jojo or a time when she was not my closest confidante. She is quite simply perfect. My child doesn’t seem to be following in my footsteps. In fact, I can hardly find her unless I am waving a credit card in the air and screaming “Apple store,” “Anthropologie” or “WalMart!” Then she is Johnny-on-the-Spot. Unless there is a financial transaction in the offing, my child is closeted with her best friends—all 18 of them in a cyber-cocoon of iPhones, BlackBerrys, computers and iPods. They do not seem to come up for air. When they do, they are off to shop, go to spin class or race to the beauty shop. (Since when does anyone under the age of 20 actually need a blow-out and a mani/pedi?) What we are witnessing with this generation is the failure of Western civilization and nothing less. A recent concert found me with six teens in tow, headed for an asphalt parking lot with blaring hip-hop and rap—and wilting cotton candy—only to be left at the entrance with the admonishment, “You had better lie low!” Lie low? I was the one with the money!

Now, I’ve decided to turn the tables and not only refuse to be a walking ATM but have turned myself into a one-woman police state. Yes, I have a breathalyzer, I have a stop-watch for curfews and drug-sniffing dogs lurking menacingly about the house. OK, so the dog in question is a French bulldog puppy named Turtle Pie, but they believe she has been to police academy training.

I am now well-rested and have cash in my pocket. And guess what? I am back to being the most popular mother at school and several girls each weekend willingly choose to hang with me instead of the mosh-pit that is my daughter’s room. The girls have decided they like my brand of listening to their boyfriend problems, loaning out designer duds and a willingness to go anywhere they like. I’d rather be with them than without them, and the hot flashes can be passed off as sweat as we dance the night way. I am on my tenth life and loving it!