Two to Tango

It is a strange dance we do. A sort of love-hate tango that I am sure has ancient ties, but is updated with personal touches. I am not sure that my partner does, but I constantly attempt to get the steps right so that we move as one with a display of great passion. I long for those watching this dance floor to be envious. But just when the years of practice seem to be paying off, the tempo changes and once again, I stumble. Each passing year adds to the complexity of this mother-daughter thing, and I am resigned to remaining out of step with her, simply unable to hear the same music.
It has always been this way, so there should be no surprise here. But each new chapter, each milestone, each new song continues to bring hope of synchronicity. That somehow we would finally find that place of absolute understanding and comfort and passion.

She is off at college, having the time of her life, meeting new challenges. I am often asked about my empty nest. Until very recently, I would lie. I would offer up the expected reply, comment on how quiet it is at home (which it is) and how much I miss her (which I don't). Actually, I relish the quiet of my home. The other part, I had to think about. Alot. What kind of mother doesn't miss her only child?
The truth of the matter is that the dance has changed tempo yet once again. But instead of trying to catch up, I must slow down. Her life is still a frenzied flurry of activity, but we no longer pass each other in the the doorway with me asking questions, trying to talk to her, be included. I am not in the middle of teenage drama anymore. She calls me several times a day now to discuss decisions that will have lasting effects on her life, to ask about cooking her favorite dishes, to complain about her roommate or a professor. Somewhere along the way, while I was trying to catch my breath, we began a waltz. I don't miss the tango.