Sunday, August 5, 2018

Pothole

Raising teenage daughters is no walk in the park.

I wish my twin 14-year-old girls and I weren’t so cliché in this way, but we are. We’re playing our stereotypical roles flawlessly

I try to impart wisdom on them – insightful, profound stuff like “it’s a nice idea to take a shower every day” and “being on your phone so much isn’t good for your brain.” They roll their eyes at me, we bicker, we repeat. They dodge my kisses and prefer I maintain a distance of at least six feet when we are out in public. 

And me? I just want them to pretend to enjoy my company for an hour. And maybe say "thanks" now and then. You know, for all the stuff I do to make their lives as safe and healthy and enjoyable as possible.  

I realize that their behavior is developmentally appropriate: they need to pull away from me as they transition from childhood into their own blossoming sense of self. But understanding the mechanics of adolescence doesn’t make it easier to bear. Some days, my discontent feels as leaden as an anvil strapped to my heart.

Occasionally my daughters will surprise me with a grateful smile or even a side-hug. One of them might tease me about a new gray hair that’s taken up residence along my temple, and I’ll joke back, “I’ve got you to thank for it.” I have become really talented at appreciating these moments of camaraderie. They are fleeting; they are my fuel.

Recently, I was so close to hitting the jackpot with one of my girls, whom I will refer to as “J.”

We had just suffered through a doctor’s appointment together. Visiting this doctor is a necessary evil, but I’m always freshly surprised by how much I dislike him. J won’t ever say that she agrees with me about anything, but I’m certain she feels the same way. As we left his office, we whispered to each other about his ridiculous mannerisms and laughed in a conspiratorial hush, hiding our mouths behind our hands. 

For once, we were on the same team. 

Heading toward our car, I was struck by the dizzying notion that my daughter might actually like me – for five minutes anyway. But my bliss was short-lived. As I reached into my purse for my keys, I failed to observe the yawning pothole at my feet. In a sickening tailspin, I found myself sprawled on the pavement, my knees covered with gravel and my left ankle twisted behind me. 

There are so many words that leapt to my tongue in that split second, most of them wildly inappropriate. So I swallowed them whole. I took a ragged breath, picked myself up, and hobbled to the car door. J had already gotten inside. 

“That’s where you say, Mom, are you all right?” I yelled in her direction. My chest was thudding. “That’s where you say, Mom, can I help you?!”

I tumbled into the driver’s seat and glared at my child. J turned to me and shrugged, offering her flimsy imitation of an apology. 

“Have a nice trip,” she said under her breath, trying to keep the corners of her mouth from curving into a smile.

My jaw dropped.

“See you next fall,” she added. 

***

I tell you this story not to suggest that my daughter is cruel-hearted or downright rude. She is neither of these things. Instead, she likes to fancy herself a budding comedian, and she has a hard time extending care or concern toward me in front of other people. This painful combination sometimes threatens to break me in two.     

Thankfully, my friend Lisa understands. Call it a love language or whatever you will; it’s tough when a mother and her kid are on dissimilar wavelengths. “I will never get used to the way my daughter shows her love for me. It’s so different from the way I show my love for her,” Lisa says. “Thirty years from now, and I think I’ll still be struggling with it.”  

***

As I said, raising teenage daughters isn’t a walk in the park.

Apparently, it’s not a walk in the parking lot either.

Get knee pads. Tuck a few band-aids in your pocket. Have your best friends on speed-dial.

If you’re anything like me, you’ll need them all. 



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