Once upon a time, my girlfriends with daughters told me how 'easy' I had it raising two sons. I nodded politely, falsely commiserating with their testimonials of perfume and hair clips strewn about the house, half-used vials of lip gloss turning up in the laundry and giggling slumber parties keeping parents awake until 3:30 in the morning.

I thought they were out of their minds. What could be worse than dodging the complete set of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles strung on my panty hose turned zip lines in the dining room? What could be more shocking than that barely-awake barefoot step on a Lego first thing in the morning? The most adventurous finds were the days when I'd unearth something from beneath the boys' beds. I finally gave up trying to decipher its origin, and became great friends with the trashcan. They never missed a thing. Yes, I would have killed for lip gloss in the laundry. Instead, I dealt with rusty bolts, nails and hinges the boys pocketed on their way home from school. Only once was I presented with a discarded snakeskin, and yes, my reaction was priceless.

I got used to it. I got used to action figures in my den. I got used to finding a stray tentacle or lost bits of slime behind the couch. I don't think I'm ready for what my daughter is becoming.

Catherine, our five year-old, wants nothing more than to be a teenager. Sure, it bothers me that she thinks Gwen Stefani is 'pretty' as she sits in a whorish spread-legged fetish-shod pose on the cover of her L.A.M.B. CD. Which, by the way, is an elusive find for the radio-lyrics version. A great spelling lesson, b-a-n-a-n-a-s, but we lost count how many times Stefani says sh*&.

Girls are a breed to be reckoned with. Being a girl, I felt I could handle this. I was a tomboy; therein lies the rub. While I spent my youth riding my bike, playing 500 in the street, shooting hoops in the driveway, jumping my bike or skateboard over homemade ramps and playing 'army' or 'spy' with my brother, Catherine wants to look 'hot' and dance - in that order. If I dare utter my opinion, it is promptly shot down with, " Duh, Mom, I can do whatever I want!" Love and warm feelings ensue . . .

This weekend we discovered Limited Too, a sort of Hollister for the Hilary Duff set. Phil and I watched our daughter strut into the dressing room with armloads of clothing, making a grand presentation with each new outfit. Spice Girls or some other bubble gum pop band filled the air, giving her all the permission she needed to strut her stuff towards us, spin, and work it back to the full-length mirror. Here, she shifted her weight from hip to hip, turned and checked out the 'rear view,' flipped her hair, and told us, "Oh, yeah. This is hot. I'll be getting this."

If we were new parents, I supposed we'd be shocked. Our shock meter is not nearly as sensitive as it once was. We've long surpassed the rocks in the ear; You did what? Why would you do that? Oh, you wanted to see if it would fit. Well, then, that makes perfect sense! (Me talking to Tyler on the way to the doctor to have the rock removed.), the broken arms; Nah, it's not broken. Just shake it off. Be tough, kid. (Agian me, urging Mike to 'suck it up.' Oh, yeah, it was broken.), and then there was the suspected cutting - not, the drug use - not, and the drunken delivery on our front yard - well, yes, that did happen. So now, after multiple car accidents, failing semesters, near arrests, tattoos and pierced tongues (I don't want to know what else is pierced), our parental shock-o-meter is numb. The boys are still bright young men, advancing through their lives, reaching their goals and setting new ones, and we feel pretty confident that the future is safe in their hands.

Seeing Catherine strut her stuff was just another day in the life. I won't lie to you and insist our stomachs didn't do a little bit of a lurch as we realized she actually knew what her body was capable of, and aptly demonstrated she knew very well how to pose to gain the attention of others. Our seasoned parenting led us to a dreaded acceptance. We now know it's impossible to re-leash the uncaged beast.

Catherine spends most of her day at school plotting with her classmates which boy they will marry this week. It's a toss up between Braden, Brandon, Harrison and Blake. The boys go along with it, which had me worried until I witnessed the interaction one day.

Imagine a playground scene where the boys are making soldiers out of pinecones, setting up a battle. The band of girls approaches:

Catherine speaks, "OK, boys. Braden, you're marrying Brittany, Brandon, you're marrying Liela, Harrison, you're marrying me and Blake, you're marrying Tori."

The boys respond, squinting in the springtime sun, "Huh? Whatever. No way! Your guy can't blow me up; I wasn't ready yet!"

The girls retreat victorious; the boys don't even realize what hit them. True to life, I'd say. The girls make a plan and the boys show up. It's a proven system that has worked through the ages.

I think what the mothers of girls were trying to express to me some 19 years ago was that girls don't tend to take 'no' for an answer. That part is new and terribly frustrating for me; Mike and Ty always knew when I'd had enough. I guess it's all just a microcosm or our biological makeup in action. Phil seems to know when to shut up, too. It is no accident that the XY chromosome set innately knows it must respect that of the XX. We girls to carry a bit of a wrath, don't we? Every sane man lives by this credo: Sometimes 'tis better to go along than to argue.

But what am I going to do when she really means it? Sure, it's cute now, but what about eight years later when she's 13 and wants to date? Dating didn't even occur to me until I was 16, and my genius mother proclaimed, "Why do you want to date now? Why don't you wait until you're 30?" Obviously, her sanity was questionable that day.

Catherine and I have a lot of days where we get along as lovingly as any sitcom mother-daughter team. She's got a bad attitude; I am hopelessly lame and will never understand. It's a system that works. As in the animal kingdom, there can be only one alpha female. I'm that female, and I feel my throne rocking every day. But when her mood swings back to an innocent childhood and those little arms encircle my neck and proclaim I'm the bestest mom ever, and we will always be best friends forever and ever and ever and ever, my heart melts.

I suppose that makes all the 3:30 am giggling worth it.