Thank you, Stephenie Meyer.
You just made my job a little easier. You, and your sparkly vampires and their angst-ridden girlfriends.
Your vampires, their girlfriends, and their stupid midnight movie premier.
The stupid movie premier, the three a.m.-on-a-school-night bed time, and the weeping, wailing, and general teeth gnashing that followed when young fans were required to keep the promise of going to school anyway.
Yes, all of you came together and gave me, a humble mom-in-the-trenches, the chance to watch her kid live out every prophecy uttered from the burning bush of Mt. Reason:
PROPHET-MOM: "If you go, you'll whine about going to seminary."
SINNER-DAUGHTER: "Oh, no, never! I love seminary! I'll be there early! I'll play the piano! I'll teach the lesson! I'll baptize the visitors!!"
PM: "You'll be really tired at school."
SD: "No, it'll be OK. I'll just stay up after the movie and sleep Friday afternoon. Why, it will give me a chance to catch up on my homework. Maybe write to grandma. Crochet underwear for orphans."
PM: "The movie won't be as good as the book."
SD: "What are you talking about?? This movie is going to be the finest visual event in the history of humankind! Your generation had the moon landing, mine has the midnight premier of 'Twilight'. It'll practically be a religious experience! I'll never be the same again!!"
PM: "Somehow, in some way, and some day very soon, you will make me regret the moment I ever felt even a twinge of mercy or kindness toward you. I will suffer for this. A lot."
SD: "Mom, as far as I am concerned, you are Mother Teresa, Carol Brady, and a hot fudge sundae all rolled into one goddess of a parent. I am your slave. Your devoted servant. My eternal soul is yours for, you know, eternity."
Well, Ms. Meyer, you're the gal with the billion-dollar imagination. Go ahead. Guess how MY Friday morning went.
It started with a five a.m. announcement that the sinner-kid was absolutely positive she was going to barf, seriously, she must have come down with strep or malaria or something, and she'd hate to infect her innocent seminary teacher.
It continued at 7:00, when it became clear that the SK had merely contracted an allergy to eleven metric tons of popcorn washed down by a $27 Icee, and was in fact not going to barf, and instead was being driven to school. Oh, the laments! Oh, the recriminations! Oh, the grief upon reaching the high school parking lot and realizing she had forgotten to brush her teeth!
And, Ms. Meyer, do NOT get me started on the text messages. I didn't even know there was a throwing-yourself-from-a-bridge emoticon.
But for all that, there was a blessed satisfaction in not having to say the words, "I told you so." My so-much-smarter-than-me daughter was living out every single prediction, including tearfully admitting that "they totally left out the best part of the book", which was her primary reason for wanting to see the movie in the first place. She was exhausted, frazzled, and disappointed.
While no one wants to see their kid in such a state, I am hopeful that maybe she learned something from all of this. Maybe, when she's in college, she'll think twice before deciding to pull an all-nighter to prepare for a test which, if flunked, will cost her her scholarship. Or she'll remember that the one guarantee in spending twenty bucks on a questionable activity is you'll wind up twenty dollars poorer, no matter what else happens. Or maybe she'll learn a little something about patience. Or going without. Or not always having to follow the crowd...
...or maybe I'll just have to live with the private satisfaction of knowing that you, Miz Meyer, are the parent of pre-teens, and that life has a way of circling back on you and gnawing on your gnalgas.
And when those little gems of yours are just getting started turning you into the family prophetess-of-doom, MINE will be grown and gone.
And for me, 'Twilight' will just mean a blissfully early bedtime.