We are a house full of girls. It is true and wonderful and occasionally challenging and, once in awhile I feel really bad for my husband. Then I snap out of it fast. Usually because he does something to tick me off. Like leave the house. Who does he think he is, all I am going to work…ha ha I think I hear him smirk as he slams the door and runs away – I mean off to work – leaving me to field all of life’s lovely ups and downs – like the phone calls from the principal, or the ridiculous calls from kids. Or the morning meltdowns: meltdown number one: My Hair isn’t perfect. Meltdown number two: I am going to be late because you made me late while you were fixing my imperfect hair. Meltdown number three: I forgot to bring – field trip money, or gym shoes or my glasses or underwear. WTH? Yes working at home is dreamy. Dreamy.
There is a cute little show on YTC called life with boys. Sometimes we like to watch it together. Because girls do stuff together – in little tribes of pink, all sugar and spice. BLEAYUCK! Spitting coffee out my nose. I think I had sugar and spice girls here for about a week. They were replaced fast by ripped jeans baseball playing running jumping climbing banshees. Then one of those dollies had her brains sucked out my some evil tween monster who periodically explodes in fits of estrogen and hair and tears. It was that girl who visited on the weekend and I think may have taken up residence for awhile. SHUDDER. Anyways she was all gorgeous and talented all March break performing – no really- she acts, yes that may shock you, but my daughter has a dramatic streak. Anyways Sunday morning that girl was replaced by super mature girl who agreed with me that working on some math would help her overcome her anxiety about Monday and back to school. It was a beautiful moment. Tear. Tear.
Then we decided to go swimming. She packed her own swimsuit. Two of them. And yet putting it on, was apparently a giant trigger for another hormonal meltdown of epic proportion. Suit came flying off, hands on hips, hurled across the changeroom. And Mommy is on the roller coaster again. Here I really need to tell you that my history with roller coasters ends one of two ways. Me screaming Let Me OFF! like a three year old. Or when that fails, me barfing profusely at end of ride. Anyways this is my kid and this roller coaster is apparently the teen years (GAH!) and I try to calm her down. The suit was fine, I say. You look fine, I say. The first one is beautiful. Fuel to the fire. Pulling another suit on she is now enraged and mad and everything Sucks! Life sucks! I am not skinny! I want to be skinny! I hate swimsuits! And then come the tears and the body image issues are so huge that I cannot fix them right here with mere hugs or words because she is too far gone. My butt shows in this one, she says, oh and she says – you can see this – pointing you know where. Now I may not have a lot of tools in my parenting teens toolbox because I am right on the cusp of this journey. But I do have a little sass, and a whole lot of sarcasm and so right as my beautiful daughter loses it fully crying eyes out over a ridiculous swimsuit I blurt loudly in the changeroom of the YMCA.
“Oh No, my swimsuit shows my VAGINA!”
And apparently Vagina is the magic word because she looks at me in horror for half a second before we both fall to the floor in hysterics. Just like girls.