题目内容
My daughter Allie is leaving for college in a week. Her room is piled with shopping bags filled with blankets, towels, jeans, sweaters. She won’t talk about going.
I say, “I’m going to miss you,” and she gives me one of her looks and leaves the room. Another time I say, in a voice so friendly it surprises even me: “Do you think you’ll take your posters and pictures with you, or will you get new ones at college?”
She answers, her voice filled with annoyance, “How should I know?”
My daughter is off with friends most of the time. Yesterday was the last day she’d have until Christmas with her friend Katharine, whom she’s known since kindergarten. Soon, it will be her last day with Sarah, Claire, Heather... and then it will be her last day with me.
My friend Karen told me, “The August before I left for college, I screamed at my mother the whole month. Be prepared.”
I stand in the kitchen, watching Allie make a glass of iced tea. Her face, once so open and trusting, is closed to me. I struggle to think of something to say to her, something meaningful and warm. I want her to know I’m excited about the college she has chosen, that I know the adventure of her life is just starting and that I am proud of her. But the look on her face is so mad that I think she might hit me if I open my mouth.
One night — after a long period of silence between us — I asked what I might have done or said to make her angry with me. She sighed and said, “Mom, you haven’t done anything. It’s fine.” It is fine — just distant.
Somehow in the past we had always found some way to connect. When Allie was a baby, I would go to the day-care center after work. I’d find a quiet spot and she would nurse — our eyes locked together, reconnecting with each other.
In middle school, when other mothers were already regretting the distant relationship they felt with their adolescent daughters, I hit upon a solution: rescue measures. I would show up occasionally at school, sign her out of class and take her somewhere — out to lunch, to the movies, once for a long walk on the beach. It may sound irresponsible, but it kept us close when other mothers and daughters were quarrelling. We talked about everything on those outings — outings we kept secret from family and friends.
When she started high school, I’d get up with her in the morning to make her a sandwich for lunch, and we’d silently drink a cup of tea together before the 6:40 bus came.
A couple of times during her senior year I went into her room at night, the light off, but before she went to sleep. I’d sit on the edge of her bed, and she’d tell me about problems: a teacher who lowered her grade because she was too shy to talk in class, a boy who teased her, a friend who had started smoking. Her voice, coming out of the darkness, was young and questioning.
A few days later I’d hear her on the phone, repeating some of the things I had said, things she had adopted for her own.
But now we are having two kinds of partings. I want to say good-bye in a romantic way. For example, we can go to lunch and lean across the table and say how much we will miss each other. I want smiles through tears, bittersweet moments of memory and the chance to offer some last bits of wisdom.
But as she prepares to depart, Allie has hidden her feelings. When I reach to touch her arm, she pulls away. She turns down every invitation I extend. She lies on her bed, reading Emily Dickinson until I say I have always loved Emily Dickinson, and then she closes the book.
Some say the tighter your bond with your child, the greater her need to break away, to establish her own identity in the world. The more it will hurt, they say. A friend of mine who went through a difficult time with her daughter but now has become close to her again, tells me, “Your daughter will be back to you.”
“I don’t know,” I say. I sometimes feel so angry that I want to go over and shake Allie. I want to say, “Talk to me — or you’re grounded!” I feel myself wanting to say that most horrible of all mother phrases: “Think of everything I’ve done for you.”
Late one night, as I’m getting ready for bed she comes to the bathroom door and watches me brush my teeth. For a moment, I think I must be brushing my teeth in a way she doesn’t approve of. But then she says, “I want to read you something.” It’s a brochure from her college. “These are tips for parents.”
I watch her face as she reads the advice aloud: “ ‘Don’t ask your child if she is homesick,’ it says. ‘She might feel bad the first few weeks, but don’t let it worry you. This is a natural time of transition. Write her letters and call her a lot. Send a package of candies...’ ”
Her voice breaks, and she comes over to me and buries her head in my shoulder. I stroke her hair, lightly, afraid she’ll run if I say a word. We stand there together for long moments, swaying. Reconnecting.
I know it will be hard again. It’s likely there will be a fight about something. But I am grateful to be standing in here at midnight, both of us tired and sad, toothpaste spread on my chin, holding tight to—while also letting go of—my daughter who is trying to say good-bye.
小题1:Why is there a period of silence between the author and Allie one night?
小题2:How did the author deal with the possible distance with Allie when Allie was in middle school?
小题3:It can be inferred from the passage that__________.
小题4:What Allie reads to the author is__________.
小题5:The author doesn’t say anything to Allie when they are standing together because_________.
小题6:From the underlined part in the last paragraph we can know that___________.
I say, “I’m going to miss you,” and she gives me one of her looks and leaves the room. Another time I say, in a voice so friendly it surprises even me: “Do you think you’ll take your posters and pictures with you, or will you get new ones at college?”
She answers, her voice filled with annoyance, “How should I know?”
My daughter is off with friends most of the time. Yesterday was the last day she’d have until Christmas with her friend Katharine, whom she’s known since kindergarten. Soon, it will be her last day with Sarah, Claire, Heather... and then it will be her last day with me.
My friend Karen told me, “The August before I left for college, I screamed at my mother the whole month. Be prepared.”
I stand in the kitchen, watching Allie make a glass of iced tea. Her face, once so open and trusting, is closed to me. I struggle to think of something to say to her, something meaningful and warm. I want her to know I’m excited about the college she has chosen, that I know the adventure of her life is just starting and that I am proud of her. But the look on her face is so mad that I think she might hit me if I open my mouth.
One night — after a long period of silence between us — I asked what I might have done or said to make her angry with me. She sighed and said, “Mom, you haven’t done anything. It’s fine.” It is fine — just distant.
Somehow in the past we had always found some way to connect. When Allie was a baby, I would go to the day-care center after work. I’d find a quiet spot and she would nurse — our eyes locked together, reconnecting with each other.
In middle school, when other mothers were already regretting the distant relationship they felt with their adolescent daughters, I hit upon a solution: rescue measures. I would show up occasionally at school, sign her out of class and take her somewhere — out to lunch, to the movies, once for a long walk on the beach. It may sound irresponsible, but it kept us close when other mothers and daughters were quarrelling. We talked about everything on those outings — outings we kept secret from family and friends.
When she started high school, I’d get up with her in the morning to make her a sandwich for lunch, and we’d silently drink a cup of tea together before the 6:40 bus came.
A couple of times during her senior year I went into her room at night, the light off, but before she went to sleep. I’d sit on the edge of her bed, and she’d tell me about problems: a teacher who lowered her grade because she was too shy to talk in class, a boy who teased her, a friend who had started smoking. Her voice, coming out of the darkness, was young and questioning.
A few days later I’d hear her on the phone, repeating some of the things I had said, things she had adopted for her own.
But now we are having two kinds of partings. I want to say good-bye in a romantic way. For example, we can go to lunch and lean across the table and say how much we will miss each other. I want smiles through tears, bittersweet moments of memory and the chance to offer some last bits of wisdom.
But as she prepares to depart, Allie has hidden her feelings. When I reach to touch her arm, she pulls away. She turns down every invitation I extend. She lies on her bed, reading Emily Dickinson until I say I have always loved Emily Dickinson, and then she closes the book.
Some say the tighter your bond with your child, the greater her need to break away, to establish her own identity in the world. The more it will hurt, they say. A friend of mine who went through a difficult time with her daughter but now has become close to her again, tells me, “Your daughter will be back to you.”
“I don’t know,” I say. I sometimes feel so angry that I want to go over and shake Allie. I want to say, “Talk to me — or you’re grounded!” I feel myself wanting to say that most horrible of all mother phrases: “Think of everything I’ve done for you.”
Late one night, as I’m getting ready for bed she comes to the bathroom door and watches me brush my teeth. For a moment, I think I must be brushing my teeth in a way she doesn’t approve of. But then she says, “I want to read you something.” It’s a brochure from her college. “These are tips for parents.”
I watch her face as she reads the advice aloud: “ ‘Don’t ask your child if she is homesick,’ it says. ‘She might feel bad the first few weeks, but don’t let it worry you. This is a natural time of transition. Write her letters and call her a lot. Send a package of candies...’ ”
Her voice breaks, and she comes over to me and buries her head in my shoulder. I stroke her hair, lightly, afraid she’ll run if I say a word. We stand there together for long moments, swaying. Reconnecting.
I know it will be hard again. It’s likely there will be a fight about something. But I am grateful to be standing in here at midnight, both of us tired and sad, toothpaste spread on my chin, holding tight to—while also letting go of—my daughter who is trying to say good-bye.
小题1:Why is there a period of silence between the author and Allie one night?
| A．Allie is tired of the author’s suggestions. |
| B．The author is angry with Allie’s rudeness. |
| C．Allie is anxious about talking about leaving. |
| D．The author is ready to adjust her way of parenting. |
| A．She would chat with Allie till late at night. |
| B．She would invite Allie and her friends home. |
| C．She would visit Allie at school and take her out. |
| D．She would communicate with Allie by telephone. |
| A．Allie is emotional and only has a few good friends |
| B．the author is not satisfied with the college Allie has chosen |
| C．there is a lack of communication between the author and Allie |
| D．there are different attitudes to parting between the author and Allie |
| A．the tips to parents on how to educate their children |
| B．the suggestion on how to deal with the generation gap |
| C．the tips to parents on when they depart with their children |
| D．the suggestion on how to ease the homesickness of children |
| A．she can’t read Allie’s mind |
| B．she is afraid that Allie will leave |
| C．she is too excited to speak a word |
| D．she doesn’t know how to speak to Allie |
| A．the tie between the author and Allie is broken |
| B．Allie doesn’t need the author’s care any more |
| C．the author expects Allie to live an independent life |
| D．the author will keep a close relationship with Allie as before |
小题1:C
小题2:C
小题3:D
小题4:D
小题5:B
小题6:C
试题分析：文章大意：主旨大意：Allie即将去上大学，可此时她与母亲之间却产生了距离，不再像从前那样言无不尽。她的母亲也明白了这一点。
小题1:C 推理题。根据文章的第一段的最后一句话She won’t talk about going以及前三段中女儿的心理描写判断选C。
小题2: C细节题。根据文中In middle school这一段判断作者采取了各种方式和女儿交流，缩短和女儿之间的距离。
小题3:D 推理题。根据的前七段判断，作者的女儿和作者面对分别采取了不同的态度，故判断D正确。
小题4:D 细节题。根据女儿给作者读的文中一句话These are tips for parents和里面的homesick判断选D。
小题5:B 细节题。根据文中I stroke her hair, lightly, afraid she’ll run if I say a word进行判断。
小题6:C 细节题。根据划线部分中的let go of，以及女儿还是要say goodbye判断最后母亲孩子希望女儿独立生活，但是有点舍不得。
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