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Torch Pass
by Stephanie Kemp








Our daughter is going to a party. This is a normal thing for a high school senior to do on a Friday night.

She is getting ready. Her friend is picking her up at 7:00.

And by picking her up, I mean coming here and hanging out until 9:00, because, of course, they can’t be early.

None of this is extraordinary. Or even interesting, if I’m being honest as I type.

What is interesting to me is that my husband and I don’t realize what has happened.

We got old.

Not the real kind - the kind that comes with actual worries like mobility, memory, mottling, money - but the kind that you don’t even see until your daughter’s friend comes to pick her up before a party.

We have known this friend since she was six. She is the best kind of friend not only because she is cool but because she came with excellent parents and a little sister that became friends with our other daughter. (Kid/Parent friendships rarely line up this nicely.)

While everything looks normal on paper (the girls get ready, catch up on each other’s schools, laugh at the yearbook, eat the leftover rice pilaf and lettuce I force on them), my husband and I don’t know what roles we are playing.

We haven’t really seen this friend since she was a kid. (Different Schools. Pandemic. She. Does. Not. Look. Like. A. Kid/Does Our Kid No Longer Look Like A Kid?!)

While we, the grown ups,  probably (hopefully) look normal on paper too, there are some cracks I notice:

•  We don’t know where to be in the house (we do know that our daughter doesn’t want us to be near them and that our house is pretty cozy, which we’ve always known).

• We don’t exactly love that they are starting their night at 9:00. (Nine PM?!)

• We have set up the ping pong table but are the only ones who play it before the party.

• We feel embarrassed to start watching Bill Maher under a blanket before they even start their night, but do it anyway. (I am also embarrassed to hear my husband refer to it as “Our Program.” He is joking..............................I think.)

When the girls (finally) put on their shoes to leave, I say “Have fun! Be safe,” then jokingly add, “Be home by 3:00!”  They stop and are suddenly silent, unsure of what to say to me - or each other. This has clearly not been discussed. And it’s more loaded than it should be, given that there have been about 95% less parties for these high school girls than normal (same pandemic) and because our daughter doesn’t have her driver’s license.  She - and we - are at the mercy of this (singular) friend who does.

Our daughter is hoping with her eyes that we don’t say something terminal like, “Be home by 11:00 at the latest!” (We don’t. We want her to have fun at what’s left of the 5% of high school parties). This is when her friend chimes in that it will probably be “more like 1:00 or 2:00. Thanks for dinner!”

Seniors on a Friday night, I repeat to myself, internally.

As the girls head out to the party in Silver Lake that our daughter thinks is Pasadena (This will all be sorted out by the time she gets her license, I repeat to myself, internally), I realize that I have had to pee since her friend arrived. This is alarming not only because I’ve had to go for over two hours, but because of what happened last night coming home from the Hollywood Bowl. (That said, “Lang Lang Plays Disney” was amazing.)

I go to the downstairs bathroom and see remnants of the getting ready: make up, hair brush, yearbook, unfinished cans of bubbly water, sad looking jewelry that didn’t make the cut…

I am looking for clues.

Who are these people?

And while I am no longer the cool mom who once got to hear everything (or anything), I realize that I am excited for their night. I also realize that I won’t properly sleep until “1:00 or 2:00,” but will blissfully doze off during Bill Maher as my husband rubs my head, until it’s time (to wake up) for New Rules!

I wash my hands now that I’m done snooping, and notice my husband’s guitars on the office wall (a telecaster, Gibson Les Paul and Taylor acoustic). I smile over the cleverness that led me to nickname the acoustic “Tami” after Connie Britton’s character in Friday Night Lights. I am filled with nostalgic delight as I try to remember all the things Connie, Tami and I had (I mean have!) in common, which always leads me to a better place.

My husband is a really good guitar player, I think, proudly. Not just because this is nice of me, but also because I let him think it was his idea to get head phones to plug into the amp and protect our mostly still fun marriage. (I am also proud of him for picking up the guitar again a few years ago, having not played for 35 years and no longer remembering any of the classic rock songs he once knew.)

I am suddenly feeling wildly optimistic.

My daughter is going to a party!
My husband is really good at the guitar!
Our Program is about to start!

I go upstairs to watch The Program, excited until I see that something has made my talented husband sad.

I feel in my bones that he just can’t believe our daughter will be leaving for college in less than a year, and remember to feel grateful that my bones are never wrong.

But then this from my suddenly vulnerable and slightly sheepish husband:

“Did you push my pedal board back under the couch?”

He goes on to confess that he left it out on purpose because our daughter’s friend (the one we’ve known since first grade) plays bass in a high school band that just booked a gig at the Whisky, and he wanted her to see it.

“Don’t tell our kids this, but I thought she’d be impressed.”

This is what I will remember from the night (including some takeaways from Bill Maher’s New Rules):

  • At least we don’t have mood ring toilet seats.

  • I once wanted sea monkeys and my husband once was a very good white break dancer.

  • Tonight might someday be a(nother) moment from our past that makes us cringe  (although we are not presentists OR historical white washers).

And most importantly:

  • The friend will get our daughter home safely* because she is still excellent, like her parents (and sister).

  • I can’t wait to be old(er) with the person that is my husband.

I am relieved on all fronts.

*Our daughter will be dropped off at 12:37, remember to wake us up and promise to tell us all about her “very interesting” night in the morning. This makes me happy, not only because I can go to real sleep now, but because the ping pong table is still set up, giving me high hopes for a fun family Saturday.


Ps.  “Very interesting” turns out to be an impossible understatement (and explains the Silver Lake that our daughter thinks is Pasadena), but that is her story to tell…or not.

Pps. I am also relieved that I am not the one/s in high school...Especially because there’s another party tomorrow.