I miss her scolding me for drinking out of the milk carton.
I don't miss scolding her for drinking out of the milk carton. Seriously. That's just gross.
I miss her combing her hair just so for a night out.
I don't miss combing through her purse for the car keys. You can hide a water buffalo in that thing.
I miss waking her from a nap by touching the tip of her nose.
I don't miss her waking me from a nap by turning my kitchen into a small restaurant for her and her friends. Am I the only parent in this world who believes in the nutritional importance of Pop-Tarts and frozen pizza?
I miss her ability to ignore popular opinion.
I don't miss her ability to ignore my opinion. Ask anyone. Wearing fuzzy blue slippers to school makes a poor impression.
I miss listening to her laugh at my stupid jokes.
I don't miss listening for the sound of the front door in the middle of the night. Thanks to her, I can hear a candle burning.
I miss calling her silly names.
I don't miss calling her on her cell phone and getting her voice mail. What exactly is the point of having a cell phone if the person never answers it?
I miss her willingness to fight for the less fortunate.
I don't miss her willingness to leave knives caked in peanut butter lying in the kitchen sink. Do as I say. Not as I do.
I miss her asking me questions about life.
I don't miss asking her questions about where she is going or when she will be home or who she will be with. It drove her crazy at times. But it was my job to know.
I miss finding her sprawled in front of the TV watching Animal Planet.
I don't miss finding empty Pop-Tart boxes in the cupboard. There is nothing so disheartening as reaching into a Pop-Tart box and discovering it bare.
I miss how she caused me to rethink what I thought I knew.
I don't miss how I caused her to rethink her thoughts of me. Eventually, it is obvious to everyone who knows me that my stupidity doesn't stop at my jokes.
I miss her keeping me young.
I don't miss keeping a lookout for boys. Any boys. All boys.
I miss suggesting good books for her to read.
I don't miss her suggesting my taste in literature leaves something to be desired. A Tale of Two Cities, I'll have you know, is a classic.
I miss looking out the window and watching her mow the yard.
I don't miss looking out the window and wondering whether she is OK wherever she might be. The gray hair isn't so bad. But the gray eyebrows? I look like Walter Cronkite.
I miss seeing her smiling face every day.
I don't miss seeing her rare frowns. If only pink bedrooms and ponytails could last forever.
I miss her helping me to remember what's important.
I don't miss helping her pack.
It has been two months since she left for college.
I miss her.
I don't deny that.