Knowledge. January 26, 2007

When I was 17, and alone with my friends in the city for the first time, and dreaming of living in a SoHo loft, and shocked that the little Italian restaurant we went to for lunch had a per person minimum, and pissed that my parents wouldn’t let me go to NYU because they wanted me to have a “campus experience,” we stumbled upon a psychic.

She dressed like a normal person and her apartment was beautifully decorated and there wasn’t a crystal ball in sight. This all lent her a certain credibility – there were no smoke and mirrors. She was just (*shrug*) a normal person, who happened to have both intuition and great shoes.

She held my hand and she told me that I’d be a writer. That money would come and money would go but it would never be a problem. That I’d have three children – two sons and a daughter - and a strong marriage.

Eight years later, I still remember every word. Eight years later, I still believe her.

I’ve already started collecting knowledge for my daughter. Not “these were the major battles of the Civil War” knowledge. She will have to go to her father for that. But real, actual life knowledge. About men, about clothes, about following your dreams. And I’ll either sit her down and give it to her in one full serving or start dispensing it slowly as she grows and matures, letting each truth sink and settle. Or perhaps I’ll just cop out and point her to this blog and she’ll cringe and roll her eyes but will secretly read every word. Except the ones that describe Mommy and Daddy having sex.

I want her to know that if a man doesn’t call, it’s not because he lost her number. It’s not because he dropped his phone in a puddle. It’s not because he’s too nervous, too afraid of rejection. He didn’t call. That’s all she has to know. And no, she should not call him.

I want her to know that clothes do not make the woman, but the right ones can certainly make the woman feel better about herself. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

I want her to know that at the first sign of a urinary tract infection, she should immediately start drinking water, to flush it out.

I want her to know that the choices she makes in high school and college will affect her future and, while it’s not fair to make 17 year olds decide their fate and while she’s not ultimately bound to anything, she shouldn’t take it as lightly as I did because otherwise she will end up working in TV and writing on the side, instead of writing for a living and watching TV for fun.

I want her to know that Arrested Development was one of the best shows on TV and she should watch every episode so that she can experience the brilliance. Also, My So-Called Life and the British version of The Office.

I want her to know she shouldn’t fight her hair’s natural instincts. Her hair will always win and the ultimate outcome of the battle will never be pretty.

I want her to know that it is absolutely, undoubtedly required that she study abroad for a semester.

I want her to know it’s okay to get a small boost of confidence when someone cat calls her on the street.

I want her to know that, while it’s cool to be the girl who hangs out with all the guys, it’s also important to be the girl who has strong female friendships.

Those are just off the top of my head. In my fantasy world, where I have lots of free time, I would keep a journal for her. Notes to her, in a pretty journal, filled with observations and life experiences and wit in place of sap because I want her to like me and think, “wow, mom was funny and cool once.”

Though, of course, not everything will be included because I am still going to want to get a call and hear “MA! I’m freaking out. How do I cook that dish that you always make, with the pasta and the tomatoes and the feta?” Just like my mom heard, a few nights ago.