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My Daughter

 In the TV series "Bates Motel," after Norma Bates discovers that her young son is a bloodthirsty killer, Norma tries to keep him home. "Stay, Norman," she says. "It's so cold and wet outside. We'll have a day indoors. We'll watch movies, we'll bake a cake. It will be fun."


I was struck by this scene--because, essentially, Norma copies my "approach." I do not actually think that my daughter will commit murder if she goes outside, but everything else about "the world" is a headache. It's a special hell to sit with Susie in the restroom of a diner; she simply cannot accept that others might want to use the toilet, and her "process" needs to involve twelve different sheets of paper towel, extensive tissue yardage, a lengthy interlude during which she stares at the mirror and sings a song. If she is at the library, she will "choose" a 700-page novel, then drop it in a mail slot--so that professionals must summon other professionals, and an "excavation" project must be initiated.

I don't like baking--but I'm working on my attitude. It's stunning to me how many steps I can miss. You don't just drizzle the batter into the cupcake divots; you're supposed to use an ice cream scoop. You don't just "lean on" your all-purpose olive oil; you're supposed to have vegetable oil. You don't just employ your own bare hands to rip the little cake from its "womb"; you're supposed to do some fancy detail-work with a butter knife.

Fortunately--at odd moments--my daughter chooses to put on a filial show of patience.

Norma Bates gets to watch "The Philadelphia Story" after she bakes; there's no way that Susie would tolerate this rental.

But I can look forward to an evolution in her tastes; I just need to wait ten or twenty years.
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