Pride and Precedence

As many have attested to, having a teenage daughter is, well, an adventure. Some days you’re patting yourself on the back for the great job you’ve done raising her so far. Other days you’re scratching your head and wondering where it all went wrong. But sometimes … sometimes there are days where you can’t quite decide how you feel about her actions.

I experienced the latter on a recent vacation my family and I took to the Oregon Coast. We spent five blissful days at the beach, RV’ing with three other families – all with daughters roughly the same age as my eldest, Kiersten. During the trip there was a lot of teenage chatter. This boy’s cute. That boy’s not. There was also shopping, resulting in all the girls buying matching white Crocs and most buying crazy socks to accentuate their newfound shoes. Kiersten chose knee-high Tapatío socks. She has a matching sweatshirt at home she couldn’t wait to try them out with.

Whether shopping, eating, or playing at the beach, the teenage girls never stopped talking. A common theme resonated amongst their chatter: finding a cute boy and getting his number; or giving him theirs. Apparently, there was a valid candidate while they shopped for socks – the one that got away, I suppose. There was another contender only a few campsites down. The girls somehow found out his name. But getting his number was not to be.

On our final night at the beach, our large camping party met at a restaurant for dinner. Party of seventeen – insane and fun (hats off to our fabulous, patient waitress). Our kids, mostly teens, all gathered at one end of the table. From the more reserved adults’ end of the table, we could overhear bits of plotting and hoots of laughter from the other end. The plotting grew louder until we finally clued in on what was going on. The five days of boy-talk and dares boiled down to one thing: Kiersten’s friends dared her twenty dollars to give her number to a “cute” boy seated across the restaurant with his family. Never one to back down from a dare (within reason), she agreed.

Don’t get me wrong, she didn’t pop up and do it right away. Lots of coaxing and planning were involved. Once our entire table was aware what was going on, kids and adults alike egged her on, offering up advice on how to execute the dare.

“Ask him for his number, then if he refuses, offer yours if he changes his mind,” one suggested.

“Just introduce yourself, then slip him your number,” another said. A classic approach.

It was a riot hearing some of the suggestions. Some were clever. Some I thought, oh, my, I hope you’ve never personally tried that one.

Kiersten listened to the suggestions until she settled on one approach: Her name and number scrawled on a scrap of paper, and the old “I think you dropped this coming in,” trick.

I found myself conflicted as I watched my daughter half-saunter, half-slink over to the unsuspecting boy’s table, repeat her pickup line, and drop her number. Crowded restaurant, a captivated audience of at least two tables (ours and the table where the boy and his family were seated), and all the while she was sporting Crocs and knee-high Tapatío socks. I remember thinking it was both the dorkiest and cutest I’d ever seen her.

Mission accomplished, she came back, red-faced and giggling. Our table of seventeen was cracking up. Honestly, so was the family at the table she dropped her number at. Kiersten took her seat, laughing so hard she had tears rolling down her cheeks. We applauded and one of her friends handed her a twenty-dollar bill for her troubles. I watched her face light up at the praise from the others.

Watching her complete the dare, and how happy she was from the accolades she received, I felt two conflicting emotions. Pride, for one. She’d put herself out there; marched over to that table with purpose, Tapatío socks and all. On the other hand, I worried what sort of precedence I was setting – allowing her to give her number to a random stranger. It went completely against my old-fashioned upbringing. My mom always taught me, you let the boys come to you. Upon reflection, I didn’t get asked out on many dates…

In the end, my feelings of pride won out. As we left the restaurant, Kiersten told me how proud she was that she had the courage to go through with it, even though she almost turned around halfway to his table. Seeing her glowing with excitement, I told her I was proud too. I did suggest, gently, that in the future she should hold out until the boy asks for her number (or at least shows some interest). I figured it was a meet-in-the-middle sort of approach. That’s what raising teenagers is all about, I suppose. Compromise. If I would have been thinking on my feet, my meet-in-the-middle approach could have involved taking half the twenty. Maybe next time.

On a side-note, now the constant chatter is about whether or not the boy will call and what Kiersten will say if he does. I imagine, if he does call, that will be an entirely different blog.