It's Not My Fault ... Really

There was a time — oh, fifteen years ago or so — when I was in control. Not really, of course, but significantly more in control that I am now. It was up to me to take care of my toddler daughter. I chose what she wore, what she ate, when she slept, what we did together on the weekends. It was all about her, but it was all organized by me.

As the mother of a teenager, I don't get a whole lot of appreciation. But, in all honesty, there wasn't much appreciation back when she was little either. She was happy and healthy so I knew I was doing a good job. And, I got hand-drawn love notes on Valentine's Day, Mother's Day and my birthday.

Best of all, I was never to blame.

These days, I am to blame for ... well ... pretty much everything. My bad decisions, my lame rules, the weather. Yep, pretty much everything.

For the record, your honor, following is a list of recent crimes against the adolescent, for which I (apparently) can be, but (definitely) should not be, blamed.

It's simply not my fault.

It's not my fault that you were late leaving for work because you set your alarm clock for 7:00 pm rather than 7:00 am.

It's not my fault you can't find your old turquoise North Face jacket. It's also not my fault that I didn't realize that there are "designated stable fleeces" when I suggested you simply wear another one. (You have at least a dozen, dear.)

It's not my fault that your AP U.S. History teacher decided there was too much work for a field trip while the other AP U.S. History teacher took his class to visit the S.S. Constitution (and, adding insult to injury, took everyone for McFlurries on the way back to school — clearly nothing says early American history like Mickey D's).

It's not my fault that one of your favorite bands is coming to town (YES!) and they're playing at an over-21 club (NO!).

It's not my fault that the people who built our house in 1830 didn't anticipate your need for 8 pairs of boots and 4 pairs of Converse and a closet to accommodate them.

It's not my fault that two of your BFFs couldn't go to Laser Quest with you last night after all because their respective parents made them stay home and babysit their respective siblings.

It's not my fault that the third season of Dance Moms isn't available on Netflix or Amazon Prime and that when you found it online the WiFi was buggy and the streaming video was not streaming. (See note above regarding the age of our home — we're fortunate to have indoor plumbing much less reliable wireless.)

I could continue.

My daughter plans to pursue an equine studies business major (yes, that does really exist — who knew?). But, I've asserted for years that she should really be a lawyer. She has a sense of justice beyond the laws of man or nature. She has an unfailing memory for past slights (and anticipated future wrongs). And she has the ability to argue her case, passionately, regardless of rules, evidence or even common sense.

I rarely win these arguments because what my daughter does not seem to have is a willingness to admit defeat. 

Still, on the counts listed above (and countless more), I have to plead "Not guilty, your honor."

Now, if I can just find that North Face jacket, maybe I can get time off for good behavior ...

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Let Sleeping Daughters Lie

Today is Yom Kippur. It's the holiest day of the year for my Jewish friends. It's also a day of atonement. Well, in the great karmic universe (or at least in my house), I must have a lot to atone for. Fasting would be a picnic compared to what I'm dealing with.

In recognition of the holiday, there's no school, so my daughter slept in. I opened the door a couple of times (to drop off clean laundry, not to spy on her or invade her space). She was asleep in the jeans and sweater she wore yesterday. She was lying on top of her comforter and under a small quilt that usually stays at the foot of her bed. Her abandoned book was beside her.

Apparently my letting her stay up late to read meant that she got to forego all civilized bedtime niceties. No soft pajamas, no snuggling under the sheets and covers. Most likely, no face washing or teeth brushing. (I didn't ask, because (a) I'd really rather not know and (b) I'd really really rather not deal with her reaction to my question.)

She slept until about ten o'clock. By then, I had gone for a walk, showered, dressed, had coffee and breakfast, prepared for three conference calls, edited some layouts. When she did finally rouse herself, I got a half-hearted "I'm up," from the base of the staircase. I responded with a friendly request that she come upstairs to my office so we could look at my calendar and decide when I would drive her to the stable. Apparently, she didn't hear me.

A little later, I checked on her. She was still in the same outfit, curled up on the couch with my iPad. I offered breakfast, but she declined. I then offered to help her fix her printer. This entailed a good thirty minutes at her desk with various manuals, CDs and online HELP. 

While I played tech support, I asked her to put down the iPad and, to her credit, she did. Instead of trawling about through Tumblr and Facebook, she lay on her bed. "Don't you have homework?" I asked. She shrugged and gave me one of those non-answers, like "Later," or "I've got it covered." So, I handed her the World Cultures text book. She groaned quite audibly, but started.

Finally, the printer was working with a minor caveat. It seems that it only works from the admin account on her laptop, not from her account. The admin account is password-protected, and it's where I manage the dreaded parental controls. Sore subject, to say the optimal least. We'll have to do some additional detective work to figure out how she can print. But, I felt relatively good because the printer was working again.

My daughter? Not so much.

She made a few unsavory remarks under her breath and slammed her way out of the room. 

Then I lost it.

I hate it when I lose it, but there are certain buttons that no one knows how to press like my daughter does. Is she grateful to have a nice laptop and printer (not to mention access to the iPad that was — in theory — my fiftieth birthday present)? No. Does she feel fortunate to be going to her beloved stable to be with her beloved horse later today? No. Will she ever appreciate all that I've done and do for her? No. No. No.

It's infuriating sometimes. 

Now, I am a problem-solver by nature, so I try to figure out where I went wrong, and — more importantly — how I might course correct. (Or should I "atone?") But, I am absolutely stymied. We have long talks; she agrees to change her attitude. Sometimes, we even seem to make progress. Eventually, though, I'm back where I started: deeply frustrated and trying to keep my cool. Now, I have to decide whether I go down and say I'm sorry for yelling, wait for her to apologize to me (which she will do, you can count on it, as soon as she needs something from me) or just ignore the entire episode.

Regardless, when she's asleep tonight (hopefully in pj's this time), I'll sneak in and look at her. If she's sleeping soundly enough, I'll give her a kiss. Despite the ups and downs, the raised voices and rolled eyes, I'm still smitten.

In my heart of hearts, I know my daughter is still in there somewhere.

The Accounting Firm of Tween, Tween & Tween

I once had a boss who described his philosophy of teamwork as a system of credits and debits.

Basically, you have an interpersonal bank account with each of your colleagues. If you do them a favor, put in that extra effort, or make them look good in front of a client, you get credit. If you need something from them or if you snap at them (because — hello? — maybe you're 8 months pregnant and they edited your copy without telling you), your account is debited.

This quid pro quo system, which he described in far more words than I've used here (and in one of those annoying I'm-going-to-speak-very-slowly-and-deliberately-because-I-think-you're-not-as-smart-as-me voices), always seemed a little cold. I mean, the accountability of it all appeals to me on some level. But, shouldn't a team work well together because we're all on the same mission? Or, gasp, maybe because we actually like what we're doing and each other.

At any rate, I've never really embraced this approach running my own agency. Then again, it might be due to the fact that we've been too busy actually working together for the past nine years to stop and do that kind of accounting.

Recently, I was reminded of this old boss's theory when I realized just how low my parental credit score is. It occurred to me that, as the mother of a tween ...

I get very little credit.

I'm not talking about appreciation. Actually, I get plenty of appreciation of the "Thank you so-o-o-o-o-o much, Mom" variety. If I agree to a last minute request to hang out at someone's house, a cross-country schooling lesson, an extra hour with the latest Gossip Girl book before bed, even a McFlurry on the way home, I get an immediate (and seemingly sincere) "Gracias, Mamacita." My daughter has manners; she does use the word "Please." She even sends handwritten thank you notes, to the amazement and delight of all of her relatives.

So, it isn't a matter of being unappreciated (oh, I'm under-appreciated, certainly, but all mothers are). The problem is this appreciation, when I do get it, is short-lived. Extremely short-lived. In fact, where appreciation is concerned, my daughter seems to have an acute case of memory loss. And, consequently, yours truly never has any credit.

You would assume that my account would be in very good shape by now. After all, pretty much everything I have done for the past 13+ years has been with one goal in mind: to make my daughter healthy and happy. Let's start with day one. We're talking double-digit hours of Pitocin-induced labor. For any readers who haven't had the pleasure, Pitocin (which was surely invented by a man), increases uterine contractions and makes labor "more productive" (a euphemism for PAIN, penned, no doubt, by a man). You also have less time between contractions; there's no gradual up or down; the PAIN is pretty much constant. PAIN, PAIN, PAIN. (Did I mention that there must be a man behind this?)

Now, I don't expect my daughter to remember that particular day. Or, the trouble I had nursing. Or, the eye infection she brought home from the hospital when she was three days old. Or, croup. Or, the six months when she refused to sleep through the night. These are "Mommy's Secret Credits." I keep them safely locked inside so I can dwell on them when I'm feeling particularly martyred.

But, it would be nice if my daughter maybe, occasionally, sometimes, once-in-a-blue-moon acknowledged all the homework help, all the term papers, all the ridiculous art projects. It would be nice if she noted how many miles I have put on my car driving her to dance, gymnastics and swim lessons. It would be nice if she thought about the fact that I spend an unbelievable amount of my time, money and energy ensuring that she can spend an equally unbelievable amount of time with the horses she loves.

Sigh. It would be nice, but it ain't gonna happen.

Then there are the smaller, discreet calculations. When I won't buy her a $40 Glee Live 2011! tee shirt, she conveniently forgets that I already spent considerably more than that on the Glee Live 2011! tickets. When I insist she clean her room because we have guests coming for the weekend, she has no recall of the eighteen thousand times I've made her bed for her. And, when I tell her to get off her phone, she has complete amnesia about who bought her the phone in the first place.

Whether it's the major investments or the day-to-day transactions ... at the Bank of Tween these days, I am somehow overdrawn. But, this is a long-term financial strategy. I have faith that sooner or later my little CFO will add it all up and realize how much she owes me.

Until then, I'll just keep making deposits.