Wrangler Dani

I’m little, and the edge of the couch just catches my inordinately long legs at the calf, causing my feet to stick out, shoelaces drooping with the tiredness of a long summer afternoon. Mom is nestled in between Denver and I, launching in where we left off in the swashbuckling adventures of Treasure Island. She doesn’t do the voices like Dad does – his pirate growls and shrill “Pieces of Eight!” make us shiver our timbers – but her voice is comforting and familiar and one of the best parts of my day.

I’m taller than mom now, in high school, and my legs are still inordinately long and still get in my way. She’s patiently teaching me how to separate the egg whites from the yolks, to create a cake that’s going to be pure perfection, I’m sure. Although our cooking circumstances are unusual, (who bakes a cake in a wood-shop with a vise sitting casually beside the fridge and the sounds of construction outside the windows?) we laugh and talk and I learn how to bake from scratch, just the way Mom’s always done. When the cake comes out, I’m excited to see that it’s pure fluffy perfection, and Dad and Denver show their approval by their large slices, eaten while resting on a lumber stack in the pale fall sunshine.

Yesterday I came home from work, to see Mom on the armchair, as pretty as ever in her tank top and shorts, long wavy hair rolling down her back. We talk about our days, sharing a smile over silly family jokes and the weirdness of life in general. We go shopping and encourage each other to buy that cute shirt and dream about all the home stuff that I’m hoping to register for. We have the same taste in lattes (vanilla with an extra shot,) comfort food (burgers with Diet Coke) and humor (when we got home, we sat on the floor and giggled at the old-fashioned antics of Get Smart).

Even though I’ve grown up a lot, I don’t think I’ll ever be as cool as my mom.