May 11, 2018 3 min read

Call me the steamer. All the other jobs are already covered.

This afternoon, I will suspend a dress hanger from the highest point in the house, probably the kitchen chandelier. Draping from the hanger will be several yards of heavy black satin tulle, the gown my daughter will wear to her senior prom tonight.

I will use a handheld electric steamer to smooth the wrinkles, particularly from the wide fishtail hem, which has been puddled on the closet floor since Grace bought the gown two weeks ago.

It’s ironic that the prom weekend dovetails with Mother’s Day; she has asked for almost no motherly assistance to get ready.

Need help with hair? No, she’s doing it herself.

Want me to paint your nails? No, professional manicure.

Help with makeup? She’s such an expert, she could do makeovers at Sephora.

Want me to teach you some dance moves?

I knew that was never going to happen.

No, this graduating senior of mine figured it out for herself. We parents throw ourselves into our children’s lives from the get-go, advising and counseling and teaching and training – all with the goal of getting them ready for adult life. From the first baby step, we are nudging them toward independence.

And yet.

And yet, when the day comes that they take what we’ve taught them and run off with it, we parents get our feelings hurt.

“I feel like you don’t need me to help you anymore,” I said as Grace modeled the gown for herself, twisting in front of the mirror. She ignored me.

Something about the way she studied her reflection, turning to look over her shoulder at the back view, suggested this is a young woman who knows precisely what she expects from herself. She is tall and statuesque, with olive skin and long, golden brown curls. Eighteen years between baby and this collapsed before my eyes.

“You’ll need higher shoes to lift that hem off the floor,” I said.

“Already have them,” she said.

“Do you want to borrow some earrings?” I asked.

“Nope.”

Indeed, I prepared her for this. As a preschooler, she spent her days in princess costumes. I wrote more than one column about how, at least a half dozen times a day, she would hand me a frock to help her get into. Many of the photos from those days show her wearing a tiara.

Your average high school senior is beautiful and poised beyond anything I knew at that age. Perhaps the culture elevated their style game, but there also are signs that good genes are the standard. Perfect skin is rampant.

“You look great in that,” I told her. “Want me to take your photo so you can see what it looks like?”

“No, it’s good,” she said as she stepped out of the gown and handed it to me.

“Will you steam it?”

And that’s how I will spend this afternoon, making my small contribution to what will be a memorable and glamorous evening for Grace, her date, and her friends. If she walks into the ball with that dramatic train falling perfectly behind her, I’ll take some credit.

But the hair, the makeup, the styling, the confidence – the whole dazzling, grown-up princess? That’s all her.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.