Don't Count Your Marabous Before They Hatch

Caution: wild mood swings ahead.

So there I was, wearing my I WIN hat, getting ready to stitch some marabou feathers onto a pair of spanking-new pink rubber gloves. (BTW: who decided to use the feathers of the hideous creature above to make things prettier? Now, that's some vision, there.)

Mid-stitch, Katie called. We were chatting about what her boyfriend will eat (he's coming with her for Christmas), when she blurted, "I'll call you back," and hung up.

You know that feeling of dread that fills your body—the one that drips from your forehead to your feet, chilling you and filling you with knowledge you do not want to possess? I knew N was on the other line. I tried to convince myself I was overreacting, but I knew.

45 long minutes passed before Katie finally called back. As casual as can be, I said, "Everything ok? You hung up so suddenly."

Bless her heart, she was honest. "Oh yeah, It's just that Nancy called."

Crushed is the only word for it. Well, there are others, but they're even more melodramatic and absurd. After all, I am not a hopeful suitor and N is not a rival for her hand. She may be, however, a rival for her loyalties. I had so hoped N and I would become friends, that we would work together (at least a little) to help Katie with all this. Apparently, she has a different plan in mind.

I have not heard a word from N since she left my house that first day. I've sent two short, casual-friendly emails but received no reply. I fear that just as I needed to ignore her existence to get what I wanted in the early years, she now needs to ignore mine. Karma's a bitch.

Face it: I'm a shabby old skin-horse and there's a new bunny in town.

It hurts like hell, but in reality, this is simply one more step along my daughter's path, her life independent of me. Motherhood is the only job on earth where the task from day one is to make yourself redundant. That was easy to understand and fairly easy to practice until the path opened so wide, so fast.

After talking to a dear, dear friend last night, I realized the skin-horse probably didn't sit on the shelf waiting to be noticed. He was patient and all that, but I'll bet he took his tattered old butt out to green pastures for a few adventures of his own. Makes the time pass faster.

I've got to get out of my head and into some fun. Stay tuned. It's going to take a hell of a fairy to make this mother real.