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As you know, I love my daughter to infinity and back again an infinite number of times. We never fight. We just don’t. We have what I consider an unusual relationship for a teenage daughter and her mother.
Given that, I’m not accustomed to getting angry with her. I do know that happens. And I am committed to my role as a mother, in which I teach my daughter self-discipline, self-worth, self-respect and how her choices impact herself and others. I’ve tried to do this all along, and feel I (and Pat) have done a good job. She’s a lovely, considerate, thoughtful person.
Today, we’re going to the auction, and taking Uber-Cool Will with us. I’ve been looking forward to it since the last auction, and I know Kelsea has too. We scoped out the goods yesterday, and have our eye on a 70-year old upright icebox that Kelsea can use as a dresser, since she doesn’t want an ordinary one.
We had dinner at my niece’s last night, got home about 10:00 and to bed about 11:00. She was going to Skype with Will for a little while – they talk constantly. I was fine with that. I understand that she’s a night person, and I understand the teenagers have different circadian rhythms.
I woke to the sound of her voice, so I went to check on her. She will still Skyping with Will. When I asked her what time it was, she said, “Not too late….only about….3:40.” 3:40????? I told her to sign off immediately. Five minutes later, I could hear that she was still on. And I got mad.
I went in and turned on her light and told her to shut it down that minute. She’s not accustomed to me getting mad, so I guess she knew I meant business, because she did. And then I chewed her out.
She had struck a nerve, and I recognized that. As I was laying in bed, listening to her still being up, I felt exactly the same way as I used to feel when I was married. Pat always did this same thing. We would have plans to do something special and he would stay up (or in his case, out) until the wee small hours and then be sluggish, hungover and too tired to be a happy participant in whatever our special plans were. I could feel the slow boil inside of me as I was laying there, something I had never thought I would feel again.
So when I began the chewing-out, I began by telling her that I knew there was a certain part of projection occurring on my part, because of this memory. However, I told her it was inconsiderate of her to stay up so long that she would be too tired and grumpy to share in our day tomorrow, and I was disappointed – which is one of the worst things I can ever say to her. She tried to interject with a couple of “Buts”, “but” I told her I really didn’t want to hear them. I told her I was understanding of her rhythms and feelings, “but” that this kind of behavior wasn’t taking care of herself and wasn’t respectful of others when she had plans with those others (a.k.a., me).
I pointed out to her that I was using “I” statements, like her school counselors have coached all the kids. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t tell her that her behavior was wrong. I just told her how her choices are impacting me and my feelings, and how they will likely impact her. And that this is an area where she needs some self-discipline.
We had been talking about this sort of thing on the way home earlier in the day, about how she tends to live exclusively in the present, with a “cross that bridge when we come to it” attitude. I generally support that attitude, however, I told her, she must learn to have a broader vision, incorporating the lessons learned from her past experiences and her insight into how the present can alter the future, for good – or bad. I reinforced that message at 4:00 am, when she reminded me of that conversation. But other than that, she was silent – as she should have been.
I turned off the light and went back to bed, still slightly fuming, now moreso at the thought that on this, my one night to sleep in, I was now awake at 4:00 am. One of the things I realized, as I lay there in the dark, was that I want to spend my time with people who take care of themselves, as that’s a sign of valuing oneself. And I want to take care of myself, as that’s a sign that I value myself. And I want Kelsea to learn, understand and know that lesson in her heart of hearts.
I did get back to sleep for another few hours. It’s now 9:30. She’s got another hour or so to sleep. I’m not mad any more. But I am curious as to what she’ll say when she gets up.
I know I’m right. I know she knows I’m right. It’s just interesting getting mad at her.
Warning: Whiney Woman Post Ahead.
I simply do not understand this whole hormonal aging thing. Last year, I went almost six months without a period. I thought I was done – done early, but done. And I was wrong. I started back up in January. And then I stopped again. Until last month. And this month. And this month, I feel like a hemorrhaging stoned whale. WTF?
I don’t even know what to think about it. Talking to the doctor is a joke. She just tells me that everyone is different, it’s all unpredictable, my hormone panels look perfectly fine, blah blah blah, can she BE any less help? And for this I pay her oodles of dollars? Honestly.
As women in close quarters often get, Kelsea and I are now on the same cycle. As she said to me this morning, I’m worse than a 13-year old on her period. She’s right. I hurt. I’m bitchy. I’m huge. I’m craving chocolate. I’m queasy. I’m sleepy. I’m messy. I’m whiney. And don’t even talk to me about road rage. If anyone on the road other than me knew how to drive, road rage wouldn’t be a problem.
But right now, everything is a problem. Grrrr.
Girls today. Soooo much more mature at 13 than I was. Between make-up and physical development, some of the girls in 7th grade look like high school seniors. This got me thinking today…why? Is it the hormones in the food we’ve been feeding our kids for the last (at least in my experience) 13 years? I was never overly concerned with staying organic in terms of Kelsea’s diet – it seemed that you have to go all the way with that attitude or it’s pointless – though I always tried to emphasize healthy eating. Pat was more the junk-food supplier.
Think about it. Back in the 12th century, girls were of a marriageable age at 12, which is a year younger than Kelsea. They were often having kids at 13. But the average life expectancy was age 30. And about 50% of children under the age of 5 died. So it made some evolutionary sense to start procreating early, because you had to work twice as hard to keep your child alive, and you weren’t going to live that long yourself. Okay, logical.
As we moved into the prim and proper 1800s, life expectancy increased and the acceptable age for marriage and childbearing became more like 15 or 16. Makes sense – we were living longer, and conditions were somewhat less harsh, so children had a slightly better mortality rate. People even started naming their children at birth – they didn’t used to do so, since the child had such a low likelihood of surviving.
We then enter the prim and proper Victorian era. Young women were chaperoned until the day of their marriage – they were expected to be wed and breeding around the age of 21. With infant mortality rates down to 33%, and average life expectancy up to age 48 by 1901, women could afford to get started having kids later. But why did their maturation rate slow down – why did sexual maturity start occurring later? What evolutionary signal was there that said, “Hold up! We don’t have to do this at age 12.”?
Moving into the kaleidoscope that was the 20th century, we went through different attitudes towards sex, childbirth and the definition of maturity, but we still kept the biological rhythm the same – women developed at about 14 or 15 and up.
And that’s where we catch up to today. Life expectancy is as long as it’s ever been – 78.4 years. The average age for childbirth is 25. And infant mortality rates are 6.7% in the US. So why are girls developing so early? Why are 7-year-old girls dancing suggestively to songs that should be way beyond their understanding? Why is boy-girl drama starting in 3rd grade? By 7th grade, it has escalated to who is making out with who in the stairwell (yes, there are 7th grade “players”) and who may be having sex. I mean, what the heck?
This physical maturity is unfortunately not accompanied by emotional maturity. You can bet your bippy that at 12-year old bride in the Middle Ages knew how to run a household, even a meager mud-hut household. A 12-year old girl today can barely run a dustcloth.
What is the point of this evolutionary change? Particularly since the whole concept of survival of the fittest, which in primitive or animal societies is the natural form of population control, has basically been eradicated due to “civilization”, improvements in medical care, and our system of “justice”? (And why are all these things that are supposed to be “good” in “quotes”? Maybe because I don’t think they’re very “good” – or “working very well”).
Perhaps there is something to this whole 2012 apocalypse thing, and we are reproducing and maturing at a rapid rate because survival of the fittest is about to make a comeback. Or not. As I said before, I don’t have the answers, I just ask the questions.
Kelsea came out of karate yesterday pale and in pain. Class hadn’t hurt her – she had been having terrible pain in her right flank, in short stabs, for over an hour. I quizzed her, took her home, tucked her in, took her temperature, forced fluids, gave her Tylenol, fed her mac and cheese. She rated the pain a 9 on a scale of 1-10, and asked me if this was what it was like to be in labor. Of course, I remember labor, but I can’t be in her body to tell what she’s feeling. Regardless, it was bad pain. I have come to realize that Kelsea has inherited my father’s legendary high-pain threshold, so when she says it hurts, you can believe it hurts like the devil.
It was still bad this morning – she couldn’t move without intense pain. And she’d had some nausea. Time to call the doctor! Dr. R. agreed with my preliminary diagnosis – it sounded like the dreaded kidney stone. Kidney stones in kids, while still rare, are dramatically on the rise. But that meant that our next stop was the hospital for an ultrasound. I’ve been in the hospital with Kelsea when I had her (contrary to the insurance company’s bizarre statement that I had her at home) and when she had her bad shoulder x-rayed. Pat’s been there with her when she had an MRI on the same shoulder, and when he accidentally let the shopping cart she was sitting in tip forward, resulting in a parking lot faceplant when she was a baby. (I’m glad I missed that one and glad she has such a hard head – figuratively and literally.)
But today, when the Hmong ultrasound tech, who mispronounced Kelsea’s name, and scolded me about her having had cereal three hours previously, told me to sit in the corner and watch, it was like an awful movie. What was playing through my mind was worse. Looking at the complete and total mystery of the ultrasound pictures – is all black bad? or is fuzzy bad? – my mind went everywhere: to her being really sick – like kidney cancer sick, to her being in even more pain, to her having to stay alone in the hospital, to any and all kinds of unknowns that are as bad as they can be. My thoughts spun out of control.
Despite Ms. Hmong’s protests, I got up and went to stand beside her, to hold her hand, and stroke her hair. Because that’s all I could do. That’s all any mother can do sometimes. It made us both feel better. Her beautiful blue eyes looked into my hazel ones and we spoke without words. We both felt that eternally powerful bond of love between us that made us smile. It was one of the deepest gazes I’ve ever shared with her. She lay on that table, in that darkened room, looking like a teenager, looking like a woman, looking like my little girl, and being just an amazing, strong human being.
The ultrasound was inconclusive. We’re waiting for blood work results. She’s still in pain, but now instead of me, she has her dad and her dogs and cats for comfort. I’m hoping that she’s not an early third-generation victim of the female kidney stone curse that runs through the women in my family. But if she is, we’ll deal with it.
As a Mom, you never want your child to hurt, to suffer. You’d do anything to spare your child pain. And it’s heartbreaking to feel helpless when you can’t fix their pain. When I can’t fix her pain.