Stickin' to My Guns

You appear like an apparition,
Coming out of the darkness,
Looming over my sleeping form.
"Love you, good-night."
Gone before your hug
Has finished it's squeeze.

The only real bone of contention Daughter and I have is curfew.

She believes she is too old for a curfew.

I believe I am too old for her to not have a curfew.

I don't sleep as well until I know she is safely home.

The bigger picture is her safety, and she knows that. There is too much mischief in the wee hours, too much danger for a young female to be driving alone on roads where no one else is up and out but people who prefer darkness to light and an occasional policeman.

The car is still in my name, too. Bad things can happen not only to her, but to the car. Insurance is already at roof level.

I've said, in my most parental voice, until she has a job that pays enough for upkeep on the car, which includes tags, insurance, tires, servicing, gasoline and whatever repair that crops up, it is  her car in spirit  only. I will "gift" her with the title as soon as this happens.

I don't sweat over whether I am wrong in my stance. I actually don't care very much.

My house, my rules, you know.

But I love her beyond distraction, so I struggle with it anyway.

Don't you enjoy being a parent?

However; as I've said since she was a baby: I'd rather her be angry with me that injured or dead.

Not  much of a choice, after all, is there?

So, Daughter, back your ears, as my grandfather used to say.

The curfew is here to stay.