Carrie Griffin

"You're like Carrie," my daughter Lex would say.

"That's nice, honey. Who's Carrie?"

Lex will grow up to be a comedy writer. She wants to be a doctor, she says, a plastic surgeon, even, sucking up to me. But I am afraid I can sense that she is born to suffer a different life. When she was five and six, when she was fearless and full of herself, she didn't mesmerize people with her uncanny recall or philosophical ponderings, no. She would say things that would make adults turn and look at her, then start to belly laugh. Ten years later she got hooked on Family Guy. I had never heard of it. I would see the animation and say, "Hey, that little guy is a creep. Why is his head like that. And are people hearing what he is saying or is he using baby speak and it is translated for us for the humor value? This is annoying. That baby is annoying. Why are you watching this?"

"Shhhhh," she would respond.

Two years later, I get it. I'm in awe. It's sideways thinking and free association comedy, and I don't hate Stewie. As much. So she knows comedy. She has a gift. And when she is done with this teenage stuff, when she can write about me without the fear of instant and proximate reprisal, she will be set for life.

None of this was my point.

My point was that she watched two series when at 14 years she had to go to a new school and hated everything and mostly me: Family Guy and Sex and the City. I let her. We have a rule in the house. Sex? Okay. Violence? No. Violent Sex? Really no. Animated crudeness and nudeness? I guess. The only thing she would ask for for a holiday gift would be a season box set of one or the other. No music. No clothes. It was all very sad.

But I wasn't following any of these programs, so when she would make remarks like the Carrie one above, it meant nothing to me. Now that I know who Carrie Bradshaw is, I think back and ask, "Why?" No, "How? How can I remind you of Carrie." She has great clothes, a fabulous career, and racehorse pony legs. She'll drop hundreds on a pair of shoes. If I even think of spending more than $79.99 on a new pair, I start to hyperventilate.

Maybe she thinks I'm Carrie because I sit in front of the computer too much. Or complain.Or sit in front of the computer too much and complain.

But anyway, one cold winter weekend, as Lexi rested completely withdrawn and wrapped to the max in my king size duvet, she said, "Come and watch with me. You'll like it." And because I sensed that finally a bigger thaw was appearing on the horizon, I did - an entire year's worth of episodes in one long overnight. That's how I learned of the series and of the fact that I'm not a Carrie. Two years later when the movie came out, Lex, who had seen the show the night before said, "C'mon mom. We're seeing the movie tonight. "You're gonna love it. I cried. Oh, and if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything. No bad mouthing. No criticism. You will love it." So we went. I ate popcorn and held my tongue. She, after making sure I got out of the house, sat by my side and texted her friends.

She's the Carrie of the family.