I need serious help. There is a creature living in my home, occupying an entire bedroom, who is The Daughter.
I evidently don’t understand Daughters very well. I totally get sons. Part of the reason why I get sons is because sons don’t play the same emotional yanky games that Daughters do. If you’re pissed at a son, you get pissed. He gets pissed back, you have a bit of a spat back and forth and that’s just all there is. They’re over it, you’re over it, life goes on.
But Daughters are very different creatures. And preteen Daughters are creatures unto themselves. The one who lives in my house is a shape-shifter. She can switch from sweet loving smiley Daughter to growling, snarling nasty Daughter in about a half-second. When that happens, it’s usually because I’ve said something she just doesn’t want to hear. This was one of tonight’s exchanges:
Me: “Daughter, I need to get things ready for the Regionals Dress Rehearsal tonight. Tomorrow you’ll be in the studio all day and Saturday is the Band Competition, so let’s get everything together tonight so we’re not crazed Saturday afternoon”.
Sweet Slug Daughter: “Okay, I’ll do it in awhile.”
Me: “It’s 8:30 pm. When exactly does ‘awhile’ occur?”
Snarling Slug Daughter: “I’LL DO IT!” [bedroom door slams]
[time passes....10:00pm comes]
Me: “Look, I need you to find the crown and stuff that goes with the team dress so I can put it together. NOW.”
Semi-Sweet Daughter: “I’m looking now!”
Me: “Isn’t it all where I put it after the last competition?”
Snarky Daughter: “YOU didn’t put it anywhere. I did it ALL”
(I sense drama beginning, another half-hour passes….)
Daughter exits room, drama drips in the air….
“I can’t find the BOTTOMS, just the tights” (Aside: Duhhhhh on the tights, I just special-ordered six pairs from Nordstrom to be safe for the next year or so — It’s damn hard to find brown tights in the spring)
Me: “Could it possibly be because the floor of your room has so much CRAP on it that there’s no way to find anything?” (yes, I was growing impatient)
Her: “Meow, Mommy, do you have to be such a CAT?”
About that time, Sticks comes out to join the fray. I’m about to tell him to go back, go back while it’s still safe when he dangles a pair of brown dance bloomers in front of me and says “Looking for THESE???”
Heaving a sigh of relief, I grab them from him — I just paid one of the team moms to have them made and a week out from the competition didn’t stand a chance of sweet-talking another pair out of her.
Me: “THANK YOU!!!!!! Where did you find them?”
Sticks: “The Pug got them out of her room and left them on the floor of mine. I guess they were probably on the floor” (a not-so-subtle jab at The Daughter’s stunted room-cleaning abilities….)
The Daughter, watching this exchange, waits patiently for his apology. Sticks, ever the “thank-you Nazi”, waits patiently for her undying gratitude. It’s not enough that he has mine. Yes, it’s an impasse.
I ponder the possibility of running away, far away, from home and letting them duke it out. Ultimately, I remind myself that it’s moments like this one…
that sustain me when The Daughter is like this. Sticks finally shrugs and tosses off something to the effect of “You’re welcome anyway and at least Mom is grateful…”, which of course…
brings us to Drama Daughter: “SNIFF. You ALWAYS make it MY fault. It’s NEVER HIS fault.”
And I look at her and say “Yes, you’re right. I live to persecute you at every turn.”
Her response: “Well, I’m glad you finally see it.”
Good grief. My final question of the night, and YES, I was stupid for asking:
“Is it going to be like this for the next six years?”
Her reply: “No. It’s going to get worse.”
Oh God, shoot me now.
