Sandy Slaga

Christmas came early this year. And just when I needed it.

The PDA or Parental Display of Affection is uncommon in the Parent-Teen world. Even rarer is the TRPDA. Teen Request for Parental Display of Affection.

And so it was that I hit pay dirt very early this morning.

I was awakened around 5 a.m. to the sound of my seventeen-year-old daughter’s voice, timid, frightened. “Mo-mmy? I had a bad dream.”

The far right will be relieved to know that the hard wiring installed in me somewhere between conception, labor and delivery is still intact. Between the “Mo-” and the “-mmy” I was conscious, vertical and capable of brain surgery if called upon.

She stood at the side of my bed, hands clasped together against her chest, shivering.

Instinctively I reached out. Tentative yet aching. Afraid that she’d tighten and recoil as had become our custom.

My palms gingerly cupped her shoulders as I pulled her in. Before either of us knew what had happened, she yielded. And I was holding her, rocking back and forth, back and forth.

Cradling her, we walked to her room. As she lay in bed, murmuring how she didn’t like bad dreams, I stroked her forehead, her cheeks. Like touching the face of God herself.

And then, the rhythmic breathing telling me all was well.

The break of dawn brought a cup of hot coffee and dreary, low 40s rain. But I’m unaware. My heart is afire.