Raising teenage girls is a lot like drinking molten steel.
Except that with teenagers, the trauma is unrelenting. There’s no swift, merciful end; just a sustained, soul-searing affliction.
And as a parent, it is expected that you transcend the rage of your teenage antagonist and soldier on, lovingly and consistently providing the instruction, necessities and boundaries that she needs to help shape her into a young woman.
They start out so small, so simple, so cute. They wear pink, they shuffle around in mommy’s shoes, pretend they’re princesses and force you to drink pretend tea at a microscopic table while flanked by a stuffed bear and a stuffed bunny. If you’re lucky you get to wear a tiara. And don’t forget to hold your pinky up.
And then, somewhere along the way, that sweet little thing is swapped for this dark, hostile, unapproachable creature who, for reasons unknown, has decided that you are no longer her ally but her sworn enemy, someone whose sole agenda item is to control her and make her life miserable.
Because, obviously, that’s exactly what her mom and I had always wanted to do, from early on in our lives. I’ll always remember one of our earliest conversations, soon after we met:
“Say, sweetie, have you had the burning desire to control every aspect of your daughter’s life and make her miserable?”
“Why, yes, honey! How curious that you should bring that up! Let me show you a list of all the ways in which I’ve aspired to spend the rest of my life bringing sorrow and difficulty to my daughter’s life, for no good reason other than that it would be such a lark!”
Yeah. All parents do that. Every teenager knows this. This is why we provide healthy food, a warm home, homework support, access to a computer, rides to school when necessary, the occasional treat, and cell phone service. Deplorable! Child abuse!
Because what we secretly love is having attitude thrown in our face, regardless of the conversation initiator:
Step-father: “Did you eat breakfast?”
Daughter: “ALL RIGHT! Jeeez! I’ll do it in a MINUTE! CAN’T I JUST FINISH what I’m doing FIRST? SHEESH!”
Mother: “I like cheese.”
Daughter: “YOU HATE ME! I CAN’T WAIT UNTIL I CAN MOVE OUT OF THIS HORRIBLE PLACE!”
Seriously – there is absolutely no escape from the attitude. It appears every where, every time, under every circumstance, in every condition, with every word. And why? Where does it come from? To what do we attribute this simmering cauldron of anger that bubbles just under the surface, ready to erupt with even the slightest perceived provocation? Only God knows.
And still we press on, pursuing a goal only hoped for and not seen, heads down, teeth clenched and shoulders squared.
Between the “Screamo” music (imagine a lunatic shouting unintelligibly at the top of his lungs mixed with the sounds of an industrial machine shop and a jet engine at top RPM) that blasts Michael awake at 5:30 AM, the heady, cloying scent of “Ragdoll” perfume that rolls down the stairs every morning, the vigorous heel-dragging at homework time and the pall of angst that hangs over the family room, I’ve pretty much had my fill.
But… I will say this:
She helps with the garbage when asked. She does the dishes, when prodded. She remembers to pick up her brother at the bus stop, and she takes good care of him when his mom and I aren’t around.
My hope for the future is that once she has passed through all of this, the tumult of raging hormones and conflicting notions, that she will emerge a kind, loving, diligent and self-respecting young lady.
My hope for my wife and myself is that at that time we won’t be completely grey.
