The saying, "If you don't like the weather in London, wait a minute" reveals a common truth about the meterological mood of the island country. It is as fickle as the tween that lives in our midst. One minute it's rainbows and sunshine. The next minute it's Hurricane Kathrina raging down the hallways of our home.

While she has gotten better at attacking my cooking (less), she has taken on the habit of lashing out when the world is too much with her. Come to think of it, that aspect of her personality has merely changed form ~ in the shape of an avalanche and a twister and a dash of helter skelter.

On Friday, dear daughter got to have two of her friends spend the night. They took over the laundry room and made it into their clubhouse (without asking, really, but since they were having fun, I didn't want to interfere). They watched a movie, got to eat pizza and two bags of chips and finally, after my final nerve had been plucked, settled down to the tune of 10 o'clock.

The morning greeted them with homemade waffles, syrup and powered sugar. They played til noon, then continued the fun at one of the other girls' houses. By 4 pm when she returned home, my daughter was a heap of oozy exhaustion. And I had failed to reminder her (for the third time), that we were going to attend church at 6 pm.

"Wha------huuut?" The look of disbelief quickly bled into a mass of horror and indignance. "You will be going without me!" our dearest daughter retorted to our casual, matter-of-fact, by-the-book parenting instruction. 

You can now imagine what happened next. If our family life were a concerto, you would see Mama moving from pianissimo to fortissimo in the pluck of a violin string.

"We would like to go as a family. End of discussion."

We entered official family meeting mode. He who held the tennis ball got to talk. That was fine when dear daughter held the ball, which she did incessantly, until I pried it from her fingers, reminding her of the rules of turn-taking (linguistics 101). We reasoned, we argued, we demanded.

The thump of a door like a timpani followed.

We went with dear daughter in tow.

We even sat one pew behind our good friends who had let us know about this monumental event. It was not just any old church service. It was the very first time in history (and our town is 1000 years old) that a joint Protestant-Catholic church service had been held. As a member of the minority (Protestant), we were going to support this effort, by golly!

The service lasted all of thirty-five minutes. When the kids found out the service was over, they gave us a jolted look of disbelief (a more pleasant one than the one shot prior by my daughter's sling-shot pre-church gaze).

But the crescendo, my friends, has yet to occur. Here it comes. Out of the blue, a harmonious word tumbled from our daughter's lips at lunch time today (thirty-six hours after the huff-n-scuff on Saturday night). With a ponderous look heavenward, she revealed a most melodious revelation: "I really shouldn't have made such a stink about attending church the other day. You were right, Mom. Gosh, you really were right."

I danced to the beat of my daughter's heart, giving her a loving sniff as I encased her in my arms like a cellist about to play.

"Forgiveness," I whispered, "is the key to love."

Amen to that!