Coming Up Short To Nikita

My 13-year-old told me matter-of-factly last night that she thinks I’m capable of much more than I’m currently achieving and that I really should start seeking the balance that’s lacking in my life.

Part of me was touched that she cared enough to offer this wisdom – usually she finds my breathing annoying and is guaranteed to roll her eyes at every syllable I utter – and part of me was mildly irritated that I was being judged, harshly, by someone who wasn’t even born until I was well into my 30s.

I was also a little irked because while not the 36th richest man in America like Lord Zuckerberg or internationally idolized like George Clooney (my contemporary), I’m relatively comfortable with where I’m at. It would be nice to not violate bank policy by dropping below the minimum balance every time I withdraw gas money from my checking account, of course, and I’d be lying if I said I have no regrets – but I’m better off than lots of folks, my job is flexible and I’m able to incorporate what I enjoy doing (writing) into my work unlike many cubicle slaves I know.

Part of the problem, I think, is that Nikita noticed the photo propped up on my desk of me shaking hands with the 42nd president of the United States in the White House back in June of 1996. My career has since “evolved” to the point that I’m more likely to win NASCAR’s Sprint Cup Series than to be photographed anywhere near the Leader of the Free World.

Another reason for my confused reaction to her evaluation is because our relationship is currently more than a little challenging, thanks in part to normal teenage hormones, mood swings and boundary-pushing. Add to that a pinch of “I’m not her real father” and a dash of “I’ve made some big mistakes” and you can understand why I’m not sure how to respond to her character analysis.

I remember when Nikita was born – I wasn’t there but her mom and I were professional colleagues at that point and I remember the pregnancy – and I even babysat her once when she was still in diapers. So I’ve always felt that she and I go way back and ought to be able to talk about anything. The fact that we can’t talk at all much of the time has caused more than one sleepless night for both of us. It’s too bad, really, because there’s a lot about her that I genuinely like and respect – her self-discipline, confidence and commitment to her academic goals come to mind – and I’d love to be able to devote my limited number of brain cells to life’s other challenges.

I’m sure she’d rather not have to deal with my demands and adapt to my preferences too.

I think I’m going to keep quiet about last night’s appraisal. After all, the conversation was better than most of our recent interactions – no one raised their voice or stormed out of the room – and it’s not like she’s going to be 13 forever.

I guess it’s just that I want her to look up to me, not down at me.

P.S. Do not tell her I blogged about her. I’m sure it would really tick her off.