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.
