Prom -- or grad -- or commencement -- GAH!

How was your weekend?

This was what mine looked like (even though it's not yet over -- I cannot post a photo of what today looks like because there might be small children in the room, and I'm not into scaring small children. "Mommy! Who IS that scary monster? Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!"). We're tired around these parts. For good reason.

THIS ... is my daughter. Not at all a scary monster.

Yes. She's gorgeous. Thank you.

Yesterday was prom. Or grad. See, in Canada, they do it differently than in the U.S. Grad = prom. Commencement = grad. Ergo, I am totally confused. 

They don't call it prom here. Well, some folks do, but I am handily corrected every time I use the wrong word. (The youngsters tend to use "prom"; their parents say, "It's grad!" And those parents are not shy about correcting my misnomer. SHEESH! The pressure! When I moved to Canada, I thought I spoke the language. I was so wrong. "Toque" (sounds like tewk) = "winter hat." "Gaunch" = "men's underwear." "Grade 1" = "first grade." They don't call them "freshman/sophomore/junior/senior"; high school students are called "grade 9s, grade 10s, grade 11s, grade 12s." They know I'm a Yankee the minute I open my mouth, and no it's not because I tend to be louder and more aggressive than everyone else. It's not my fault that some people think and speak slower than I do. Maybe they should start the day with more sugar, and then they'd be able to keep UP.)

So, now that we're all speaking Canadian, this weekend was grad, with the after-grad party (that was supposed to be dry but, uh, yeah, sure no one showed up drunk), and next weekend is commencement. That's where the cap and gowns come in. It's official graduation, or commencement, even though the Wee Lassie has to go back to school for two exams the week following commencement. That's lame. When they give you the diploma, you should be done. Growed up. Movin' on. Sayonara, suckas. 

Now time for more photos, because it was just that much fun:

The dress.

The corsage. Pretty orchids.

The mommy and the baby. Please excuse my lion hair. I was running around like a crazy person,
setting up photography equipment, trying to capture Every Single Moment. And it was muggy. Thus, frizz.

This is the question we get a lot. "What grade are you in, sweetheart?" People always bend over when they ask her this question, as though bending over will make sure she can hear them. 

My kid is short, not deaf. And if she were deaf, she can't read your lips because you have onion breath. (Her sense of smell would be heightened by the loss of hearing. They say that happens -- other senses improve to compensate for the lack. Thus, she can smell that you had onions for lunch. Here, have a breath mint.)

The question she hates even more than that? "Would you like a kids' menu?" Or how about "Would you like some crayons to keep you busy before dinner comes?" I love that question the most, especially when it's asked by hostesses younger than Yaunna. Uh-huh. I giggle. Then Yaunna punches me. She's mightier than she looks. 

Oh, and when she wears eye makeup? That's awesome. You should SEE some of the looks I get from Judgey McJudgersons who look at her and then look at me, like I'm some shit mother because my young/tween-aged daughter is wearing eye makeup. SHE'S ALMOST NINETEEN. GET OVER YOURSELVES. And before you get all nasty with your condescension, look at your own 15-year-old who is posting photos on Facebook of her chubbily-wubbily boobs smooshed against the Webcam with her duck lips and wine cooler she stole from your fridge because you took the blue-smoke-wheezing Camaro out for a joyride and ended up at the casino to play the one-armed bandits. Yeah. JUDGEY. (And seriously? Wine coolers? Is this 1987?)

My daughter has a growth condition (I have her permission to chat about this) called Turner syndrome. As such, she's tiny -- 4'8-1/2" is where she's at now, and that's where she'll stay. THAT is why we call her the House Elf, the Gnome, Mini-Honey, Mighty Mouse. It's not because we're being mean. It's because she's little, and she owns it. Rarely do you find a personality so big in a package so small. (Oh, and she blogs about all things entertainment.)

What does this mean? It means that I am NEUROTIC about her going anywhere alone. If I could afford to hire a full-time bodyguard/chauffeur, I so would. If I could convince her older Army brother to move to BC with his crazy muscles and mean streak and killer skills with hand-to-hand combat and weaponry, just so he could be her shadow, I would. Because the world is a mean place. And she's very little. Even though she's the oldest in her HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATING CLASS. In four months, she'll be old enough to walk into any Canadian bar and order a drink (drinking age here is 19). With alcohol. Yeah, that's going to be fun to watch. We're probably going to have to take her birth certificate and passport with us.

I'll take pictures of the waitress's face.

So, Yaunna, cheers to you, from me and all my bloggity-blogging friends, and YES, on June 16th, you are officially a grown-up; yes, you have to get a job; yes, you have to go to college; and yes, we promise to be there for you every step of the way. Unless you buy a Camaro and start drinking wine coolers and going to the casino and shoving your boobs into the Webcam. Then you're on your own.

Senior, er, grad photos. Fuzzy as it's a picture of a picture. To buy this CD of images? $300. Not gonna happen.

More photos next week. At grad. I mean, commencement. WHATEVER.

Xs and Os ...