Centers of the Universe

Yesterday, I spoke at a marketing conference, and while I was there, I ran into an old client, colleague and friend. I won't tell you her name; you'll see why in a moment. This woman has twins — a girl and a boy — who are just slightly younger than my daughter. As we compared notes, our discussion (as do most discussions with other moms of other teens) centered around the inherent and omnipresent drama that is our lives. 

She shared a funny story.

Recently, after a hard day at the office, she told her daughter offhandedly, "Oh, I wish I could retire and just work at Nordstrom's."

The daughter was aghast. "No way! You mean, like, you'd wait on my friends? You can't do that!"

I love the fact that my friend's daughter just assumed that the only reason her mother would daydream about a career change would be to torment her teen. (The same daughter would, no doubt, take it very personally if I were to identify her mom by name.)

If you are not the parent of a teenager, here's a news flash:

Teenagers are the centers of the universe. 

If you have one, you know exactly what I mean.

Yes, the world, the planets, the solar system, the sun itself revolves around them. For example, you plan a special family getaway and it happens to conflict with a concert your teenager wants to go to. Clearly, you have done this to punish her. Never mind that you made the vacation plans months ago. Never mind that the band with which she is besotted just released their dates yesterday. It's all your fault. You are unfair. You hate her. You are ruining her life. Yep.

The elation your teen feels when things go her way knows no bounds. It is matched only by the depths of despair she experiences when her best laid plans don't come to fruition. And, because she is the center of the universe, her complaints are fairly epic in proportion. Since the dawn of time, no one has ever had such an unfair English teacher; has ever felt so left out by a cool crowd; has ever had to juggle homework and babysitting; has ever been forced to put away her iPhone, eat broccoli, or make her bed.

It isn't easy being the center of the universe.

(It isn't easy being the center of the universe's mother.)

Well, here's another news flash. I don't think it's entirely the teen's fault. It's a combination of nurture and nature — neither of which is in their control.

If our teens think they are all that, we probably have to accept a little (or a whole lot) of the blame. Since my daughter was born, she has pretty much been the center of our lives here. For years, we've rearranged our schedules to attend dance recitals, school plays and horse shows. We jump in and help her with homework. We jump in and help her with friend issues. We jump up to take her where she needs to go. (Basically, when she says "jump," we ... you guessed it ... jump.)

And my husband and I are not alone. In our case, we accommodate the demands of her horse riding, lessons, and events. But all of our friends with kids have something that they have chosen to invest in and work around: gymnastics, softball, dance, hockey.

Whether it's measured in time or money or hassle, there is no question who is the center of this household. It's not surprising that she assumes that position is hers in the outside world as well.

Meanwhile, a little research reveals that there is a chemical and physiological reason for teens' "me, myself and I" thinking. In a 2008 study, teens were shown to have significantly more receptors for oxytocin. This leads to increased self-consciousness — teens truly believe that everyone is watching them. Another study, in 2011, demonstrated that teens use a part of their brain that makes decisions based on "what's in it for me." This is hard-wired into all of us. The difference between adults and teens is that we only use that processing center some of the time. Teens? All of the time.

Is this their fault? Probably not. Can it be helped? Probably not. Should we lose any more sleep over it?

Probably not.

Inconsideration ... Or Food for Thoughtless

They say, "It's the thought that counts."

All right. Well, what about the countless thoughtless things we deal with every single day as moms of tweens and teens?

My daughter is, by all accounts, a "very nice girl." Her older relatives adore her. Her teachers would like her to participate a bit more (she's surprisingly quiet in class, given how noisy she tends to be at home, in the car with a friend, or at the stable), but they tell me she's a pleasure. I get rave reviews from house guests, mothers of her friends, babysitting clients. They all agree that she is a "very nice girl."

When I hear all of these different constituents singing her praises, I want to pull her aside, look her in those sweet, compliant eyes and say ...

"Who are you? And what have you done with my daughter?"

You see, the tween who lives in my house is not a "bad girl," per se. She doesn't smoke or drink or hang out with the wrong middle school crowd. But, she is consistently thoughtless. She is about as inconsiderate as it is possible to be. Again, I'm not saying that she's "bad." She is thought-less, as in, she puts no thought into her actions or other people or how her actions affect other people. She is in-considerate, as in, she doesn't stop and consider anyone else's situation. Anyone else, as in, her loving mother. As in, me.

Here are several of the myriad examples I encounter on a fairly regular (daily, hourly, practically every minute) basis ...

She gets up each day, not with a sweet "Good morning, mom," but with razor-sharp resentment. Apparently, it is my fault that (a) it's morning, (b) she's tired, and (c) our society insists that fourteen-year olds attend school.

She leaves her dirty dishes on the coffee table, on the floor in front of the TV, on her dresser, on her desk. Sometimes (if I nag her), she brings them into the kitchen and leaves them on the counter. Basically, I can find dirty dishes pretty much anywhere in my house. Anywhere, that is, except in the dishwasher or the sink.

She practices origami ... with her dirty laundry. Untangling jeans and jodhpurs, underwear, socks, bras and tank tops, doubles my time in front of the washing machine. Add to this thankless job the fact that our basement has a particularly low ceiling (you actually have to stoop over while you're down there) and I'm particularly allergic to my daughter's horsey clothing, and you can understand why yours truly does not particularly enjoy laundry day.

She's in a hurry when there's somewhere she wants to go. Otherwise, she has no sense of time whatsoever. When I say, "Come right home," I might as well have said, "Take all the time in the world. I hear they're selling Frappuccinos at Starbucks." When I say, "I'll be outside the barn at 6:00," she hears, "I'll be outside the barn at 6:00, but by all means, you can come out whenever you feel like it. Nothing would make your mother happier than waiting in the car in the cold in the dark for forty-five minutes."

She sheds her belongings each afternoon when she returns from school. Really, I can follow a trail through the house: lunchbox, jacket, backpack, scarf, gloves, hat ... This habit of hers will come in handy if she's ever lost in a state park and they bring out the dogs for a search and rescue mission.

She would rather text her friends or play a video game or watch a YouTube video or ... or ... or ... or pretty much anything electronic than actually have a conversation with her mom. Even though, I've dropped everything to drive her somewhere.

The list goes on and on (and on). My own mother reminds me that it's better to have a daughter who presents a kind and considerate self to the greater world at large and concentrates all her thoughtlessness on me. I guess, she's right. After all, I do enjoy those parent-teacher conferences. But, maybe once, maybe on Mother's Day or on my upcoming milestone birthday, it would be such a pleasant surprise to hear a "please" or a "thank-you." Or not be kept waiting. Or not have to wrestle with her laundry or rinse her dirty dishes.

But, if and when that day comes, I know what I'll say ...

"Who are you? And what have you done with my daughter?"