Made redundant

I've always thought that was a cruel expression. Along comes new technology or even just economic hard times, and British workers are "made redundant." Now I feel the meaning of those words with full force. I heard once that the purpose of being a parent is to make yourself obsolete; in that case, I have succeeded remarkably. I have made myself redundant.

Fiona attended her first bat mitzvah Sunday. We had been preparing for this for weeks, and I had a great deal invested in the outcome for various reasons. First, it was to be my daughter's first dress-up party without me. Second, at her age every social event is an opportunity for dizzying success or radical failure. Third, and this is embarrassing but true, I've never set foot in a synagogue myself. Hey, I grew up in the Deep South in the 70s and 80s. If there were any Jewish kids at my school, they were flying under the radar, hoping not to be noticed. As for me, I've always been something of a Jew-wannabe but sadly lacking exposure. So this bat mitzvah was a chance for my daughter to be exposed to something deeply meaningful and beautiful that I have not yet had the opportunity to observe for myself.

Excited, Fiona and I went shopping for the dress she would wear. Shopping together often consigns us to opposite and bitter camps, but this day was magic. She tried on a pink dress and loved it. You'd have to know her to know why that's so unusual (bit tomboyish, bit practical). She looked amazing. Oddly enough, she looked sophisticated in her pale, ballet pink. It had the weird effect, through its sheer simplicity, of making her look classic and elegant. It was 75% off. Every accessory was 75% off. We were charmed, tripping lightly through Macy's, collecting wraps and shoes and handbags, and the cost of the outfit in total fit on the remains of a gift card Jeff and I received last year when we got married. A propitious sign, indeed.

Sunday morning we awoke early and did her hair. It came out perfect. I let her wear a tiny bit of makeup. I knew how important this day was to her. We took pictures, and we deposited a happy but slightly apprehensive young lady at Beth Shalom.

I tried not to worry all day about how the affair was going. I knew how much was riding on its success, but I kept myself distracted. When it was time to pick her up, I couldn't wait to hear all the details. Who wore what? Did she dance with any boys? Did any of the girls, jealous of her beauty, make catty comments?

She greeted me with an impatient toss of her head, settled herself into the passenger seat, and proceeded to listen to "Soulja Boy" on the radio. When I asked her questions, she answered with impatience and scorn. I was devastated. She swore she had a great time, but she had no intention of sharing that good time with me. It was hers, not mine. Not mine at all.

I'm starting to come to terms with this. There will be so many more moments that she will refuse to share, and some of them will be golden, and I'll just miss out. I can't stop this. I will always hate it. But I'm guessing this means that I'm doing what I'm supposed to do. I'm there on the sidelines, in the process of making myself redundant.