"Butterflies Are Free To Fly"

My daughter, Butterfly (16) is an extrovert. She must be with people (her people) day and night or she is restless and bored and lethargic. She comes alive with relationships; bubbling and sparkling and her very best self. I understand completely, because I am entirely similar in that way.

But her ever-fluid weekend plans distress me greatly. The schemes seem to unfold moment by moment. Butterfly will take the car, saying she’s going out to a movie with Sparkle, and then apparently she’ll find out that Sparkle is now unavailable. So then she’ll call us and say that since Sparkle can’t hang out, she’s heading to a restaurant to meet Giddy, and then Giddy ends up being grounded or something, and so Butterfly winds up playing video games at the home of a completely different group of kids whom I’ve never heard of before. And then she’ll call and ask if Flighty can spend the night, and I say yes, and then in walks a girl with her sleeping bag, and I’ll call her Flighty, and Butterfly will say, “That’s not Flighty, it’s Whimsy.”

It’s unnerving. In grade school, I knew every one of her friends’ names. And their parents’ names. And where they lived. And what they did for a living. Now Butterfly has so darned many friends, I cannot keep track. They come and they go, depending upon the season. And they all look alike to me; with their long, flat-ironed hair and size 2 low-rise jeans and Abercrombie ensembles.

And when you don’t know the kids…..or their parents…..you worry just a little bit more. Because I know teens. They like to be rebellious and defiant and spread their not-quite immortal wings. But they think they are immortal. And they sometimes do things that are prohibited. I know I did. And I bet you did.

When I was in high school, my sheltering parents forbade me to see Restricted movies. So in my own personal mutiny, which was pretty innocent by today's standards, I saw EVERY Restricted movie playing in the theaters with my friend, Kathleen, back in the days when the ticket sellers did not check IDs. It felt so deliciously evil to sit in the theater seats, munching on popcorn, giggling over the fact that my parents were deceived; certain I was watching “Arthur” or something. I memorized the plot summaries of more innocent movies, just in case I was interrogated. But I was never caught.

So tonight, Super Hubs and I sat in a little corner of a restaurant, on our Date Night, enjoying skanakopita and Greek salad; fielding the occasional phone calls from our daughter. The adventure continues: Butterfly is at a movie. Now she’s eating fast food. Now she’s heading to the home of some friends to hang out. So we ate our dinner, encouraged her to be safe, and insisted she be home by curfew. And we rejoiced that she is who she is. We wouldn’t want it any other way.