I’M DRIVING my daughter to her first ever “date”. Except she refuses to call it a date. It’s just a movie. With a boy.
“Make sure you pick me up at four,” she says, having researched the movie length and allowed for seven minutes of chat time afterwards. “And don’t go and have a manicure and refuse to pick up your phone in case it ruins your nails.” (It’s happened before).
“OK darling.” I consider telling her she should’ve thrown her Converse in the washing machine, but think better of it.
“You seem nervous. Are you worried he won’t like you?”
“I’m more worried he might be boring?”
“How can he be boring — you’ve messaged each other 14,764 times in the last two months. I think you’d know by now. But just to be sure, shall I come in and say hello when I drop you off?”
“No Mum, that’s weird.”
And then because she has to allay my creeping fears that he’s a porn-addled lunatic with a knife fetish, she tells me his mum is a maths teacher.
“Oh, she sounds nice.”
Eye roll. “Only you would think someone ‘sounds nice’ because they’re a maths teacher.
“And he has three sisters.”
OK, now she’s just making it up. I’ve long held the view that boys with sisters are a good bet.
As she checks her hair, I think of a million things I want to say. I’ve taught this child how to wipe her bottom, use cutlery, throw a ball, multiply by nine, how to use fancy words to sound more cerebral. But here she is, about to take her heart and cross the Rubicon, leaving me waving on the other side. What to tell her?
What to tell her? First of all, if he looks like Justin Bieber, ditch him. Source: ThinkStock
Hands, sweetheart, are a measure of character. Nice hands = good heart.
Whatever you wear will be wrong. You will realise this the second you hop on the bus/train/plane and fret until you see him. Then you’ll either forget what you’re wearing — which means he is perfect — or the evening will be awful and it’ll all be your dress’s fault.
Don’t be a princess. It then falls to him to be a prince, and epaulettes are never a good look. If you like him, it’s as incumbent on you to make him feel special as it is on him to make you feel the same.
Be imaginative. Anyone can buy a gift. Fill a room with candles. Leave a note in the book he’s reading. Wake him at dawn to watch the sunrise (not until you’re 26, obviously). Remember James who, aged seven, carved a rock into a heart and gave it to you on Valentine’s Day? That’s your yardstick of ardour. Tattooing someone’s name on your body is not a sign of love but of insecurity.
A date, or a “thing” as your gen calls it, is a dance of talking and listening. If you find yourself doing just one of those then it’s not a date. Or a thing.
How he treats others — the waitress, the check-out operator, the guy at the servo — is as important as how he treats you.
If something feels wrong, it probably is. In a year it’ll be even more wrong.
When you go to the beach together, please swim. And surf. We didn’t pay for swimming lessons and spend the entire summer of 2007 pushing you onto waves for you to huddle self-consciously on the sand in a bikini.
Never neglect your girlfriends. Equally, don’t tell your friends anything you don’t want the rest of your class and Tumblr to know.
Don’t think you can change anyone or repair their damage. Yes, Gary on Puberty Blues is super hot but he’s a stoner and FUBAR*. Woody is the trifecta: smart, affectionate and funny.
If he ever asks what or how much you eat, walk out then and there. Equally, don’t hate talk your body. Every time a girl moans about her bum, another boy is given reason to believe we are all fruit loops.
Be amusing. Adventures are like Cheezels — grab handfuls. Yes, bars are fun, but so are lighthouses and waterfalls and mountains and billabongs. Take your guitar. I’ll pay any excess baggage.
Your godmother reckons you should accept all unexpected offers “for research purposes”. It worked for her so go with it.
Nine out of ten doctors agree with Angela’s assertion that the heart is made of muscle. Source: ThinkStock
Finally, your heart is made of muscle, not glass. It can hurt, indeed it will, but it can’t be broken.
Of course, I say none of this. Instead I lament that I can’t write about it. I’m selfish like that.
“Oh Mum, yes you can,” she sighs. “Just don’t make up a stupid name for him. Like Colin.”
She kisses my cheek and bounces out of the car, freshly-washed hair billowing everywhere. My girl is becoming a woman. I hope for her sake Edgar is not borin
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