I have found myself the house guest of my daughter Amelia while visiting her in Rochester. Some of my previous blogs have detailed the events of these visits. Mom the teacher, Amelia the student.

During a recent visit, I noticed a shift happening in our relationship and I am beginning to be the student, not the teacher.  My memory is fading, my strength is waning and the roles are beginning to turn. It’s actually kind of cool until you start to realize it.

“Amelia, why is this charge on my credit card?”

“Mom don’t you remember? I told you about it.” Really? I do remember asking you to do things 100 times before they were done.

“Mom, get in the right lane, it’s a right turn and watch, the speed limit changes here.”

OMG really? Like when you either forgot to use brakes or decided to see how loud you could make me scream coming into the driveway at 45 mph.

At the beach, yesterday. “Mom, you’re getting red.  Did you put lotion on your chest?”

This coming from a child who could not tan if God came before her in a vision.  She also texted me a picture last night of her upper arm, beet red, where she missed lotion.

Sometimes I think I am still the dojo master when she calls me from Wegman’s and asks me which aisle bread crumbs are in?  I am 213 miles away and have not yet memorized the floor plans for the various Wegman’s in the greater Rochester area (…but I did it).

The calls that begin with “I have a question” restore my faith in the security of my position as the teacher. Amelia has been a great student and is progressing through her self-proclaimed status as adult in training.

This is just the beginning of this transition. Amelia has some gold stars for effort. She shopped for our favorite snacks to take to the beach and we had a ball people watching. I see her now more clearly, even through the disheveled bedroom, interesting selection of foods in the fridge and the inordinate amount of ice cream in the freezer. OK, that may be in the gene pool.

Jack?  Jack has some serious wins in the win column. He knows how I like my coffee and is keenly aware that I get kisses when he leaves and an I love you, on the phone before he says good-bye.  That other column still needs to be cleaned up.  He is three years behind her so I have faith.

“Do not forget to text me when you get home,” she said last night.

“I will.” (Being the student feels pretty good.)