My little pork chop has only five days left with me before she sets out into the big wide world without her Mama. Her new passport arrived yesterday, and we spent a little bit comparing this new one to the ones she's had since babyhood. At 13, this is her last "child" passport. The next one will be good for ten years, starting when she is eighteen.
Looking at the baby passport, DD commented that she used to have "squinty" eyes. I laughed and told her that her eyes never squinted, it was her chubby baby cheeks, which she found appalling. The young child passport was better, but DD had just grown her adult teeth, which gave her a bit of a bunny rabbit look. This passport breaks my heart, since she looks like the nearly grown up woman she thinks she is.
My stepmother took DD out for some last minute shopping, which turned out to be fruitless. (Child has no shopping genes) When they returned, my stepmother alerted me to some things DD had said, and wanted me to discuss my mother's "travel rules."
Unbeknownst to me, my mom has been telling DD all the things she's supposed to do...and eat. My grandparents have what I would call "old fashioned" tastes, meaning "you eat it before it eats you." Over the years, I've been served every part of a pig but the oink, pet pigeons, pet bunny rabbits, horse and god only knows what else. DD, being a city child, prefers her meat wrapped in plastic at the market, and thinks that pigeons are flying rats, bunnies are pets and would sooner eat a dog than a horse. Mom knows this, but it using the same tack she used on me at DD's age: hissing threats through her teeth, ordering the gagging one to choke it down and like it.
DD was in a dither: What if Oma and Opa serve her Pig's head? (My siblings and I are deeply scarred from watching Opa eat pig face for breakfast one morning when we were kids) She wanted to know if they hunt squirrels and woodchucks or if she'd have to eat pig hoofs. (Do pigs even have hooves?)
So, I modified the rule: If it's something normal American people wouldn't eat (like fish-on-a-stick), she can pass and have bread and butter. If it's a dessert that Tante Lia made, she must eat at least a small piece and pretend to like it. (Tante Lia puts in countless hours making jam tortes and the like, and they all taste horrible. But she loves us dearly, and we don't want to hurt her) At my other Aunts' and Uncles' homes, it won't be so much of a problem -- they are my cousins' parents, and are used to the younger generation not wanting offal as part of their meal.
I contacted my mother and read her the riot act. Do not force food on the child. The child has an emergency supply of Ramen in her suitcase, and will not die. It is abusive to force a child to eat pig face or fish-on-a-stick. Deftly, Mom changed the subject: DD told me that you want to have us bring you home _Beads!?_ in that tone that makes beads sound like a forbidden substance. "What do you mean, Beads?"
I informed her that she should be very familiar with beads, because so much of the jewelry she wears each day is made from those very items, and that she seems to be able to smell when I make something nice out of them. I told her that if they see a bead store, buy me some stuff. If not, don't. I'll be in Germany sooner or later and I'll buy my own. I similarly nixed her offer to go barter for beads in the Czech Republic -- I would rather get ripped off than get the best price - because these beads are the difference between abject poverty and normal poverty.
Mom also had a cow when she heard that DD is handling her own spending money. "You're letting a child handle over a hundred dollars!" Yep, you bet. Especially since that child earned all her spending money.
I got an international calling card for DD, with detailed instructions on how to call home. My cousin has set up DD with an AOL Gaste account, so I can email back and forth with my kid as well. DD is requesting that she get to take Polaroids of her Daddy and me and the dog and P/T D and Grandpa to take with her, so she can take us along with her.
All I have left to do is pack. I'm going to try again to get her to learn how to pack, again; though it really is my responsibility to make sure she has everything she needs for a couple of weeks abroad.
But is her mother ready?
Kathy N-V