It’s 4:50 a.m.

I am in the business center of the hotel, listening to Kenny G. on the hotel’s system, having given up on sleep after an hour of tossing and turning.

I’m not usually prone to insomnia. I treasure sleep the way other women treasure shoe-shopping or jewelry. But something Cat said last night has me awake and wondering where the hell parenting manual is that the hospital should have provided when we had her. She looks to me for answers and right now I have none.

Last night, well past usual bedtime, we were all laying in bed reading. Cat suddenly looked up from her tween pop magazine and asked me, “Mom, have you ever argued the laws of attraction in court?”

“What?” I asked somewhat irritably at being pulled away from “Assassination Vacation.”

“The laws of attraction,” she repeated. “Have you ever argued them in court?”

“Uh no, can’t say that I have. Why do you ask?”

“This article is really good. It’s all about attracting boys. I’m going to have to read this again when I finish.”

“You’re 8. You are not allowed to date until you are 30 and finished graduate school. Why do you need to study the laws of attraction?” I asked.

And then she hit me with it. “Well, I didn’t want to tell you about it before, but toward the end of the school year, people started telling me I was weird. They called me Scaredy Cat during soccer, and some days no one would sit with me at lunch. So I have to study this stuff so that third grade will be better.”

Darling Hubby asked her, “What do you think you should do about that?”

“I don’t know Dad,” she responded a little sadly, “But maybe this magazine will help.”

I don’t know what bothered me more in the moment (or bothers me now) – the fact that she thinks a magazine with Justin Bieber on the cover may have more answers to her thorniest problem than her parents or the fact that she is probably right.

Now I know that this is not the oil spill in the Gulf or the fragile economy or world peace. This is typical growing up stuff that all parents face. And yet, here I sit, barefoot in a hotel office trying to devise something more sage than can be had for $3.95 at the drug store magazine rack.

I’ve got nothing.

I could tell her that she is gorgeous and kind and funny and creative. But she hears that all the time from us. I could tell her that everyone, including mommy, has had this happen and still does, but that is cold comfort when you are 8. I could tell her that anyone who doesn’t recognize what a truly fabulous person she is is too stupid to share her chicken nuggets with but again, it doesn’t help.

Just like when she burned her arm several weeks ago, there are times when the great and all-powerful Mommy can not prevent the injury but can only help with the healing after. But while I have taken first aid classes, and knew where to go for advice on burns, I don’t know of a class on helping your child negotiate a world that is not all princesses, bed-top concerts and jokes about how hideously old Mommy is.

This is only the beginning. She is on the edge of a time where the opinions of her peers will matter more than those of her ancient and hopelessly out of touch parents. She is nearing the time when she will be deaf to our praise but the criticism of others will play in her head the way Lady Gaga does on her iPod. And our encouragement, our advice, our love, will be muffled by the other noise.

But maybe, unlike the Kenny G. I am actively ignoring as I type, maybe she will tune in to our background song and learn to sing along.