Tag Archives: mom

I’m Mean, and I Don’t Get It

Puberty is hell, especially when it’s not yours.  You may think it can’t be worse than going through it yourself, but unless you are a perimenopausal woman with a pubescent daughter, you have no idea what hormonal hell really is.  The mood swings, the acne, the attitude…and that’s just me!  You ought to see my daughter!

Julia keeps telling me I don’t get it, and you know what?  Sometimes I don’t.  Sometimes I don’t get it.  I don’t get why she is so snotty, and I don’t get why she cannot remember anything except the words to her favorite songs.  I don’t get why it takes her all the time she has in the morning to get ready, plus an extra ten minutes so that we are late, no matter how early I get her up.  If she has 30 minutes, she takes 40. If she has an hour, she takes an hour and ten minutes.  And what I really don’t get is the total loss of the ability to communicate.  I’m not sure which one of us has lost it, but there’s definitely a problem.  Here is a typical scene at the local ice rink, where my figure skating daughter spends a lot of time:

She walks down to the ice, then comes back up, and stands in front of me.  Her eyes dart anxiously to and fro, her brow furrowed. “I have a problem.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Shhhh!” she says, eyes moving even more frantically.  Angrily she jerks her head at the nearest group of people, who are two tables away and talking loudly in Chinese. 

“Honey, they can’t possibly hear me.” 

“Mom, stop!”  She’s looking really distressed now. 

“OK,” I whisper, “What do you need?” 

“Stop looking like that, and be quiet!” 

I school my face to be as neutral as possible, and as close to ventriloquism as I can muster, I whisper even more quietly, “Are you going to tell ‘e ut is the ‘atter?” 

“Mom, please!” 

“ ‘Isser in ny ear,” I suggest. 

“Oh my gosh, you just don’t get it!” she exclaims, hands clutching her temples in anguish. 

Now people are looking.           

So I say nothing, waiting patiently for her to tell me what’s bothering her.  I look  at her with an expectant, encouraging expression. 

“Well, aren’t you going to help me?” she says accusingly, throwing up her hands in frustration. 

“Julia,” I say in a quiet but normal voice, “I’d be happy to help you with whatever is bothering you, but if you don’t tell me, I can’t do that.  Nobody can hear us, but your dramatics are calling more attention than anything else.  Sit down and talk to me. 

“Why do you always have to be like that?” she says, clearly furious with me. 

Be like what?  Concerned?  Helpful?  Normal?  Now I’m starting to lose patience with the guessing game.  “Look, Julia, if you need to talk to me about something, then I’m listening.  Otherwise, get down to the ice and warm up.  You have a lesson in five minutes.” 

“You don’t have to be so mean!  Just nevermind!” she says loudly, and stomps off to the ice. 

Several parents look our way, and I can see their thoughts in little bubbles above their heads. “Oh, that mean old mother just can’t get along with her daughter.” “Not a nice, respectful girl, like my daughter.” “Tsk.  Must be a dysfunctional family.  How sad.” I turn away and look down at the ice, where my daughter is smiling and laughing with a friend between salchows and toe loops.  

Laughing out loud, I think “She’s schizophrenic!” 

When I was a kid, I remember thinking to myself that I would never forget how it felt to be that age, and that when I was a parent, I would remember and be very understanding. 

But somehow, after all those new neuropathways of adolescence are through developing, some sense of the anguish is lost.  I remember with a grown up mind, not the mind of someone whose body is morphing into some unknown territory.  Well, actually, my body is morphing, too, but in a less pleasing way.  And I’m pretty sure I know what it’s morphing into.  

But back to Julia.   I am trying very hard to be supportive, but also to keep her to boundaries.  We can rage against the world, but we can’t punch our little brothers for laughing about our bra.   We can throw ourselves on our bed in inexplicable tears, but we can’t scream at a baffled Daddy “Go away, you big poop!”.   We can hate our math homework, but we can’t expect to understand how to do it when we spend the entire class time drawing pictures of the math teacher hanging from a noose.  It’s fairly simple, it seems, but I guess that’s because I’m all developed neurologically, and everything.  At least for now.

Harper Valley Mom

I suppose there must be one at every school.   After all, they’ve written songs about her.  You know, the Harper Valley PTA mom.  The kind who looks like she might have a job that’s illegal in most states, and who makes you suddenly conscious of your sweatpants and sneakers.

I ran into ours, almost literally, about a month ago.  I had kissed my daughter goodbye and was rushing my son to his classroom when…boom! There she was.  Right in front of me, about two inches from my nose.  She’s very tall; I’m very not.  “Excuse me,” I said hastily to her bright pink waistline.  She looked down distractedly, then looked away as if she hadn’t seen anyone or anything, and kept on walking. 

“Hmmph!”  I thought.  “You’re in the wrong part of town, honey.” 

Her hair is brown streaked with large chunks of blond.  She had on enough makeup for a Tammy Faye convention, and wore big Jackie O sunglasses.  Her top, what there was of it, was tight, sleeveless, bright pink, low cut, and showed her flat (damn her!) belly.  She wore tight, black, low rise pants with flared legs, and pink stiletto pumps.  The kind of pumps that have a very rude slang name, if you know what I mean.  She stood out like a Kodacolor figure in an old black and white movie.  

In contrast, I wore sneakers, jeans, and a bleach stained sweatshirt.  I had on no makeup, and in fact had barely combed my hair before dashing out the door.  I am sure Harper, as I like to call her, has never cleaned mildew out of a shower, let alone stained her sweatshirt (like she has anything as dumpy as a sweatshirt) with Tilex.  

I sneer, but perhaps a part of me, a teensy weensy part, and I’m not admitting anything, mind you, but just maybe part of me is the tiniest bit jealous.  Maybe.  Because if I were to wear the same outfit, the adjectives that would come to mind would not be “cheap” or “sleazy”, but rather “comical” and “pathetic”.   I mean, wouldn’t we all like to know that we could be sleazy, if we wanted to?  

I am sure I am doing this poor woman a terrible injustice.  She looked very young (damn her again!), and probably hasn’t been beaten down enough by life to think that Mom clothes are OK.  I’m sure underneath the scant clothes, inside that tall, taut body (damn, damn, damn!), beats a heart of gold.  Or something.   She’s just a great gal who’s also a candidate for “What Not to Wear”.  Oh, how I would love to hear what Stacy and Clinton would say about her! 

I know it’s wrong to judge, especially on appearances.  And I feel badly about that.  Sort of.  After all, I certainly wouldn’t want someone to decide from looking at me that I am slovenly, thick headed, and unemployable.  On the other hand, I dress so that no one will look at me.  I definitely want to stay in black and white, at least until I get out of this mind blurring little kids phase.  And really, I am in black and white mentally.  My whole being is focused on my children, which I guess is a little unhealthy. 

I can snipe about what this woman is teaching her daughter.  About her message to the world carried by her appearance.  But what am I saying?  What am I teaching my daughter?  That once you have kids you don’t matter anymore?  That fun goes out of your life with the placenta?   That a good mom is selfless to the point of martyrdom? 

Hmmm… 

Since then, I’ve joined Weight Watchers.  Gospel truth.    I’ve lost the first five pounds, and I’m starting to think that my wardrobe is a little drab for the thinner me that will be emerging.  I hear Macy’s is having a spring sale…perhaps a little hot pink? 

 Look out, Harper, you may have some competition.