The Stages that Try Mom's Soul
Any parent will tell you that there are certain stages in child development that will just about drive any parent up the freakin' wall. Sometimes those all-knowing little parenting books
most of which were written back in the Pleistocene era will hint at an upcoming rough patch, but usually either Mom or Dad ends up experiencing these little patches.
Recently, I was reminded once more of the often excruciating paradoxical nature of the "tweener". My ten year old daughter is 17 one minute and 3 the next. She's rebellious one minute and then five minutes go by and she's yelling "where is MY BLANKIE??" I wish I was making that up. I'm sure one of the hallmarks of terrible parenting is having a 10 year old child who is still attached to his or her "blankie". I prefer to think of it as my own little experiment in attachment gone awry, however. Can you blame me? One minute she is howling about her iPod headphones and then she reverts back to year 5 or even earlier.
I had a richly nuanced episode of this see-saw tweener battle just the other night as I was on my way out on a date. My 7 year old son was going to bed. Suddenly he wanted "Kitty" and I had no idea who "Kitty" was. He's not a tweener but he does play one on TV. Most of the time he is the child who is generally reasonable and can generally find his toys and books on his own. If only he'd teach her. Anyway, suddenly "Kitty" was of the utmost importance. A half hour before, this same child had been maniacally throwing bombs and using a flame thrower with frightening accuracy while playing "Destroy All Humans". (In my defense, this despicably violent game does have an underlying leitmotif of anti-McCarthyism that is both hilarious and somewhat educational. "See the man whose head is now in the cow pasture? He's based on a terrible lying conservative sack of dung named Roy Cohn, darling, " I say. My son jumps up and down and happily incinerates the cow pasture.)
Now it's a half hour later and I am searching for Kitty. "What does he look like?, I ask" "You know--I got him on the way out of Busch Gardens in Virginia. He's only got half his stuffing because Daddy was in a hurry and I didn't have time to get him clothes or all his stuffing." My daughter chimes in helpfully "It was like Build-a-Bear but kind of a cheap version. I got one too but mine came from the real Build a Bear." I begin to sense trouble. My son suddenly remembers that Kitty is on his top bunk and it looks like I may get out the door in time, but no. Kitty is retrieved and then the battle begins.
"Hey, that's my KITTY!", shouts the 10 year old. "No it's not, it's mine!" my son retorts. "Mine had a busboy outfit and roller skates! This is it!", says my daughter. Son begins to cry --possibly real tears, possibly not. I'm too annoyed to check. Back and forth we go until the tweener storms into her room to look for her version of this stupid stuffed carcass of a cat that was most probably made by a Chinese slave laborer under the age of 4. Then it gets more interesting. "MOM, where are ALL of MY stuffed animals! You threw them away, didn't
you?" YOU ALWAYS THROW EVERYTHING OF MINE AWAY." Now I'm pissed, so I shout back--probably something with obscenities--I don't recall. I search her room and in the
back of my brain a little voice says "shit, did you throw all that crap out? Oh, man, I'll never get out of here. Fucking stuffed animals...I hate them." I do not say this out loud.
Then, I have an epiphany. I run upstairs to the dark, fetid storage space in our third floor playroom and start to rummage around looking for redemption and GOD DAMN BUSBOY Kitty. I find a bag with 10 million Beanie Babies and then in the very back-- a box with stuffed animals. Kitty is upside down and his outfit is oddly askew, but he's there. I get excited and
promptly bash my head on a roof beam. Perfect. Fortunately, tweener 10 is thrilled and I am somewhat redeemed. I roll my eyes many times---out loud. She doesn't notice. A few minutes later, I have almost escaped and she is on iTunes. Kitty is under her bed. The boy is asleep, holding his version of Kitty. Now I can make my escape--at least temporarily.
most of which were written back in the Pleistocene era will hint at an upcoming rough patch, but usually either Mom or Dad ends up experiencing these little patches.
Recently, I was reminded once more of the often excruciating paradoxical nature of the "tweener". My ten year old daughter is 17 one minute and 3 the next. She's rebellious one minute and then five minutes go by and she's yelling "where is MY BLANKIE??" I wish I was making that up. I'm sure one of the hallmarks of terrible parenting is having a 10 year old child who is still attached to his or her "blankie". I prefer to think of it as my own little experiment in attachment gone awry, however. Can you blame me? One minute she is howling about her iPod headphones and then she reverts back to year 5 or even earlier.
I had a richly nuanced episode of this see-saw tweener battle just the other night as I was on my way out on a date. My 7 year old son was going to bed. Suddenly he wanted "Kitty" and I had no idea who "Kitty" was. He's not a tweener but he does play one on TV. Most of the time he is the child who is generally reasonable and can generally find his toys and books on his own. If only he'd teach her. Anyway, suddenly "Kitty" was of the utmost importance. A half hour before, this same child had been maniacally throwing bombs and using a flame thrower with frightening accuracy while playing "Destroy All Humans". (In my defense, this despicably violent game does have an underlying leitmotif of anti-McCarthyism that is both hilarious and somewhat educational. "See the man whose head is now in the cow pasture? He's based on a terrible lying conservative sack of dung named Roy Cohn, darling, " I say. My son jumps up and down and happily incinerates the cow pasture.)
Now it's a half hour later and I am searching for Kitty. "What does he look like?, I ask" "You know--I got him on the way out of Busch Gardens in Virginia. He's only got half his stuffing because Daddy was in a hurry and I didn't have time to get him clothes or all his stuffing." My daughter chimes in helpfully "It was like Build-a-Bear but kind of a cheap version. I got one too but mine came from the real Build a Bear." I begin to sense trouble. My son suddenly remembers that Kitty is on his top bunk and it looks like I may get out the door in time, but no. Kitty is retrieved and then the battle begins.
"Hey, that's my KITTY!", shouts the 10 year old. "No it's not, it's mine!" my son retorts. "Mine had a busboy outfit and roller skates! This is it!", says my daughter. Son begins to cry --possibly real tears, possibly not. I'm too annoyed to check. Back and forth we go until the tweener storms into her room to look for her version of this stupid stuffed carcass of a cat that was most probably made by a Chinese slave laborer under the age of 4. Then it gets more interesting. "MOM, where are ALL of MY stuffed animals! You threw them away, didn't
you?" YOU ALWAYS THROW EVERYTHING OF MINE AWAY." Now I'm pissed, so I shout back--probably something with obscenities--I don't recall. I search her room and in the
back of my brain a little voice says "shit, did you throw all that crap out? Oh, man, I'll never get out of here. Fucking stuffed animals...I hate them." I do not say this out loud.
Then, I have an epiphany. I run upstairs to the dark, fetid storage space in our third floor playroom and start to rummage around looking for redemption and GOD DAMN BUSBOY Kitty. I find a bag with 10 million Beanie Babies and then in the very back-- a box with stuffed animals. Kitty is upside down and his outfit is oddly askew, but he's there. I get excited and
promptly bash my head on a roof beam. Perfect. Fortunately, tweener 10 is thrilled and I am somewhat redeemed. I roll my eyes many times---out loud. She doesn't notice. A few minutes later, I have almost escaped and she is on iTunes. Kitty is under her bed. The boy is asleep, holding his version of Kitty. Now I can make my escape--at least temporarily.
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