Me: Did you lick your sister’s hair?
Him: Yes.
Me: Did I ask you not to do that again?
Him: Yes. But. Don’t thwart me, Mommy.
Me: (a pause) Carry on. You deserve it.
* * * *
Him: Mommy, whatcha makin’?
Me: Chicken, blow, and cabbage.
Him: Yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyywait. I don’t want cabbage. You give me two blows, OK?
(STILL refers to mac & cheese as blow. Yet to correct him. What?)
* * * *
Him: Can I take my socks off?
Me: Uh huh
Him: Don’t say uh huh, Mommy, say no or yes. Or just yes.
* * * *
I did something or she did something or Apple likely did something and now her texts show up on my phone. I can see the conversation she’s having with a close friend. I can see what she thinks, what she says that I’m probably not supposed to know. And yet I’ve made no attempt outside of a cursory exploration into why it’s happening, to make it stop. Their conversations are typical, 9-year-oldish, boring, funny, scary in the amount of typos because really, we haven’t worked on homophones? They want to see each other, they miss each other (because five days a week together at school makes weekends oh so hard.) And they talk about what they’re doing — reading, playing a game, getting in the shower. All boring enough stuff that although I want to stop the messages coming to my phone, it’s not bothersome enough to make me really work hard on figuring it out (suggestions accepted and appreciated). Also, I told her I could see them.
I don’t think she understood.
I don’t particularly enjoy eavesdropping on their conversations. It’s pretty damned irritating to have her texts showing up when I’m expecting that buzz to be my husband saying he found a pair of shoes he knew I’d love and just had to get them for me. Shut up and let me dream.
Last weekend was hard. She was in straight up little sister mode which meant bother the older sister. The older sister wasn’t feeling well, though, so the nuisance of the younger sister was intensified. She kept staring at her sister, then saying she was looking at the wall beside her head, so technically, not staring at her. I asked her to find something else to do. Her face fell. I was choosing the other over her. I always do that. I never choose her. I know this is how she feels. She says it often, the always never.
Tell her you love her. Tell her you love her.
I pat the top of her head and continue making eggs.
Just say it, reassure her.
I am mute.
Later, as the older sister is rinsing a bowl, she pushes her aside with her smaller hip, jams her bowl under the water. I watch this unfold, see the older sister contemplate bopping her upside the head with her bowl, but opt to simply sigh and ask her to move over. She refuses, keeps rinsing. I shouldn’t have stepped in. I did. I asked her to wait. And again, there I go doing that. I never choose her. I know this is how she feels. She says it often, the always never.
This time, she cries.
Tell her you love her. Just say it, reassure her.
I am mute and let her walk away.
She goes downstairs and I hear her whisper to daddy, telling of all the meanness going on upstairs against her, how mommy and the older sister are being mean and she doesn’t know why. Oh, how this irks me. I love that she trusts him, but at the same time, you can’t tattle on me, let alone slant it to get more sympathy just because you don’t understand what you did wrong. I didn’t yell either time. I didn’t accuse or berate. I simply guided in another direction. To her, it was you do everything wrong and I’d rather you went away. To her, I dislike her. And that hurts more than she will ever be able to understand (until, of course, she has a 9 year old of her own.)
My phone buzzes. She has texted her friend: My mother hates me.
My stomach sinks to my feet. I want to go to her, upstairs in her bedroom where I’ve told her iPods aren’t allowed once it’s bedtime.
The friend, thankfully, says No, your mom loves you.
I hate her? She thinks I hate her? Because I asked her to move at the sink, wait until a person comes down before trying to go up the stairs, don’t let the door close on her brother, stop staring? Or is it a culmination of all the things she feels wronged over?
Go to her. Tell her you love her. Tell her her thoughts are not true. Go to her.
I sit still and cry a little. She thinks I hate her. The parenting scorecard is not in my favor between her thinking I hate her and the older sister hating me.
I am mute. I say nothing. I let her go to sleep. I find my way upstairs, hours later, after I’ve sat on the couch and daydreamed about easier times, looking at photos of when they were so much smaller, younger, understandable.
I lie in her bed, snuggled up tight, and whisper I love you into her hair. She doesn’t hear me; she’s asleep. The words have no meaning when they are unheard and tomorrow she will wake up with the same thought she cried herself to sleep with: my mother hates me.
My 12-year-old is upset. I can’t say that I blame her. I’d be rather pissed too. But then, if I were her, I’d be smart enough to know that my actions carry consequences so when I asked to do something I wanted to do, I wouldn’t be at all surprised when my parents said you be illin’. Last weekend she was invited to a birthday party – movie, dinner, and a sleepover.
What time is the movie? Around 4. Dinner where? A Friday’s somewhere. Where does the girl live? I don’t know.
Um…what? My husband asked why I was entertaining her with questions anyway. The answer was a straight up no and it had nothing to do with the fact that I’d heard her mention this girl only once before, have never met her or her mom, or that “around 4″, “a Friday’s somewhere” and “I don’t know” aren’t answers that’re going to make us rush to say OK.
Oh, but she had the girl’s mom’s cell phone number. Right.
My daughter is on the verge of failing seventh grade. There. I said it. I love how friends think I’m such a wonderful parent. I cook every night, big, full, meat, starch, veggie dinners. I read to them, I play in the yard, I limit TV. You know, all the things to constitute and ensure the girls won’t be on the pole, the boy won’t be slingin’ rock. I don’t think my friends have ever actually seen me do these things, though, so I guess it pays to do your yelling and beating with extension cords in private. I was supposed to be the one winning at parenting. Supposed to’s are hilarious!
This is about more than saying no this one time, though. This is about saying no constantly because she keeps asking for things even though she’s not holding up her end of the act right bargain. If I am expected to go to work to make the money to buy the shit she wants, the expectation is that she will go to school and do the work to make the grades that warrant me buying the shit she wants. And I don’t mean normal stuff like socks and underwear, paper and pencils. Not necessities. This girl keeps asking for shoes. And clothes. And accessories. And lip gloss. And money to play on StarDoll. And, just…y’all. I have been teaching her about education, I know I have. She’s seen me graduate twice! I’ve talked to her, I’ve explained: until your grades are brought up, until there is definite betterment in the comments section of your report cards, until teachers stop writing things like “does not care”, “shows no effort”, “is too social”, “could really be an A student if she just tried” , the shoes you have on will have to do.
And then she admitted that some kids are teasing her about wearing the same shoes every day. I don’t want my kid to be embarrased, and I certainly don’t like feeling like other kids are dictating when I buy new things. I’ve been bullied. I know that feeling. I want to protect my kids from it as much as I can. But, at the same time, right now it’s the shoes. I buy new shoes and tomorrow it’ll be the socks, it’ll be her hair, her sweater, her nail color. Once a bully starts, he’ll find something else, anything else just because.
And then I think, even if we had more money, I wouldn’t buy everything she asks for. I can’t help wondering if she thinks what I thought at her age about my parents: it’s not my fault you don’t have money. You should have thought about and prepared for the financial aspects of parenthood before you entered it…three times. I can tell she hates me, can feel it in her already perfected eye rolls, the foot stomps as she saunters away post NO, the closing of the bathroom door (not slamming, because some shit just ain’t tolerated). She goes into the bathroom and stares at herself, sure that she is being punished by the bitch downstairs, sure that there is some family searching for her, her rightful family, the family with money that is able (and willing) to buy real Uggs and send her to fashion camp. I was the same way is precisely why I know how she feels. I remember that feeling, wanting Aigner riding boots. But now, as the parent, I also see why my mother got the knock-offs.
I don’t know what to do at this point. She does homework every day. It’s checked every day. There isn’t much by way of studying that needs to be done. They work on a skill in class, then do homework for it and move on. She seems bored, which I took initially to mean she wasn’t being challenged. Now, it seems like the boredom is self made. And I have to admit, I don’t know how to handle this. I always loved school, still crave the ability to go back for a PhD (but Sallie Mae is the devil and I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT). So, for a child who loves learning, adores reading, I don’t know where the disconnect is. It seems like more than a phase. That goal of honor roll in elementary school is nonexistent in middle school.
And I’m floundering, trying to figure out what to do to motivate her, make sure she at least passes, then work on how we’ll address the even more important eighth grade. How do I get her to understand that this phase of her life is how she’ll become the fashion designer she aspires to be? How do I get her to see that she has to be 12 and 16 and in middle and high school before she can do anything else? It seems like she thinks she’s wasting time with all this tween nonsense, all this learning of percentages, main idea, and the location of Mesopotamia.
I’m just…floundering. And she hates me and I don’t blame her sometimes beause I remember that feeling. And this wasn’t supposed to happen because I play in the fucking yard with them and I let them use all my baking soda and food coloring to make goop and I let them have the last of the lemonade now. This reward for such hard work sucks.
I’m guest posting on Tonya’s site, Letters for Lucas today. A year ago, I wrote this about parents hosting sleepovers and inviting children of parents they’ve never met. It’s saddening how it still rings true today and seems to be worsening.
Please visit me there where I give a few tips and let me know if this is an issue in your life as well.
