Broken Beyond Repair?
Broken Beyond Repair?
As I've explained in earlier blogs, mine is not the party house. I don't have the big screen TVs with the accompanying Wii, Xbox, or Guitar Hero games. No swimming pool, no hot tub, no recording studio complete with drum set and piano.
So when my kids and their friends choose to hang out at my house rather than their dad's, I'm pretty thrilled. Either they like my company, or my cookies. Probably both. And the fact that my late best buddy's sons actually wanted to come hang out with me while home from college pleased me no end. It was an occasion for breaking out the sugar and spice and everything nice. Mine is the baking house.
As we were whipping up a batch of snickerdoodles, my girls and I were wailing along to my current iPod playlist: Taylor Swift ("You're Just Another Picture to Burn"), Carrie Underwood ("The Next Time That He Cheats"), and the Dixie Chicks ("Goodbye Earl"). It suddenly occurred to me that, perhaps, I was not being a Good Role Model.
Oops. My bad.
I do love men. None lately, it's true. And I really have good reason to hate a number of them, but that's another post.
I think back on the days when my girls were in the church choir, belting out gospel songs, German dirges, Gregorian-like chants. No mention anywhere of digging keys "into the side of his pretty little souped-up four wheel drive," carving up leather seats and bashing in headlights.
Okay, I admit that's harsh. But it pretty well captured our collective frame of mind about The Boy, my youngest daughter's First True Love. I knew from the moment I saw him, driving up in his Mustang convertible, that he would break her heart. I didn't know then that he would break her spirit as well.
When he went off to college, I tried to gently prepare K for the inevitable, but she was sure that He Was The One. He would always love her.
Until he didn't.
My older daughters alerted me to her change in status on her Facebook page: K is broken beyond repair.
Knowing that that is a line from Twilight, doesn't make it any less heart-breaking.
When I came home from work that night, she came out of her room, collapsed in my arms, and sobbed her little heart out, telling me some pretty horrifying things about The Boy. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," she wept, "but I was afraid that if you knew, you would hate him."
Oh sweetie, I wanted to tell her. You didn't need to worry about that — I already did.
But of course, I kept those thoughts to myself as I tried to console her. My thoughts on The Boy?
Taylor said it best: "Burn, burn, burn, baby burn."
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