Thirteen.
An ominous number.
13 is fun to observe, so much roiling of hormones, the pendulum swinging wide from child to adult, crashing into whatever is in the path of the swing.

I attended my second ever bat mitzvah this year as my daughter’s friends enter the adult community of their faiths. I have found the rituals, the ancient words and language comforting and fascinating. The community of this temple is welcoming to those of us who are other faiths. My daughter was even asked to participate in one of her friend’s ceremonies.

What I enjoy as much as the connection of the modern to the ancient and the passing of the faith from one generation to the next, is the rows of thirteen year olds in the audience. They sit way up front in support of their friend. It is an occasion for festive clothing. When the row of thirteen year old girls stands, the cushions on the chairs are dusted in glitter. Their lips are slick with shimmer, hair curled to perfection, shoes precariously adult for their limited experience at such heights. They can’t quite manage poise with their bra straps annoying them and needing adjusting, the knots on their halter dresses needing periodically re-tied during the long ceremony. One boy in a suit jacket was wearing a yarmulke decorated with Boston Red Sox patches. The candidate is often seen smiling back at the faces her friends must be making at her. One of the Hebrew songs, no doubt a favorite from summer camp, inspires the kids to stand and twirl on a certain word, causing the adults in the audience to smile and chuckle. Solemnity can only be sustained for so long.

The reception was also delightful. I loved watching my daughter with her gang of friends add the Horah to their repertoire of Cha-cha and Electric Slides and Macarena. The after-party in a suite in the hotel that hosted the reception went into the wee hours. I understand an officer had to knock on the door and explain the purpose of a hotel to most of its other guests. He apparently came in and sat on the sofa to deliver his lecture of the proper use of luggage carts and the decibel rating of hotel walls.

While I am enjoying watching this group of thirteens, living with one is not always as delightful. I like watching the adorable monkeys at the zoo too, but I don’t want to necessarily live with one. I love my daughter on the brink of thirteen. I try to keep the eye rolling and sighs to myself. I try to give space and also be available. Tonight, however, I didn’t get much right.