Split Personality

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

I was tempted to ask this over the weekend. With the family Thanksgiving done, my tween daughter and I flew to Columbus, Ohio to visit my college roommate and perpetual BFF.

Although our tummies were still uncomfortably full and our flight was uncomfortably early, we were both thrilled to go.

The word "family" has evolved — at least for us — to encompass not just blood relatives (of whom we have many and are exceedingly fond) but to the people we would choose to insert into our family tree if we weren't limited by a higher being. Or DNA.

Our Ohio family includes a mother and a father and a dog and three pretty grownup kids: two in college and one in medical school. These are my daughter's surrogate cousins (if not spiritual sisters and brother). So, the long weekend was a particular bonus for me. Not only could I anticipate many hours of talking and talking and coffee and talking and talking and wine and talking and talking, but I could also benefit from my daughter rubbing shoulders with three excellent role models. If they tell her to work hard and get good grades, she nods enthusiastically, hangs on their every word. If I tell her to work hard and get good grades ... well ... not so much.

Where my tween may welcome advice from the younger generation of our honorary family, I downright seek it from their mother. Bullying, skanky fashions, hormones ... all the angst I encounter as a tween's mom? My friend has been there, done that. Three times! She reassures me that we're doing fine.

And, another interesting thing happens on our visits (which are few and far between, much anticipated, and over too fast). My daughter treats me nicely. Gasp! She doesn't roll her eyes. She doesn't hiss exasperated sound effects. She says "Please" and "Thank you." She sits on my lap. She leans against me on the couch while we watch a movie. She says "I love you too" when we all go to bed.

OMG! WTF!

There's a downside to this. For months on end, my friend lends a sympathetic ear (or email or Facebook message) as I bemoan my lot as an overworked, underappreciated, thoroughly neglected mother. Then, we step off the plane and suddenly Miss Hyde has turned into Miss Manners. My friend, to her credit, has never actually called me a liar, but she's got to wonder.

"Really," I insist, "She's SO not like this at home."

But, despite my protests, I sit back and enjoy it. I'll take the affectionate daughter I remember so well (and love so much) wherever and whenever I can find her. All good weekends come to an end and I know things will be back to normal soon.

Too soon.

Dr. Jekyll and Miss Hyde

I only have one child. But in essence, I have two different daughters.

First, I have the sweet daughter who went shopping with me while we were on vacation. My birthday happened to fall during our week in Florida, and my daughter and I went to St. Armand's Circle — an elegant shopping district across the bay from Sarasota — to celebrate. She had secured some funds from her father (who did not mind missing the expedition in the least) and was prepared to spoil her mother thoroughly. In fact, I had to be very careful because anything and everything that I happened to admire in passing was pounced upon. "How about this? Do you want this for your birthday?" We finally landed on a lovely pinky ring with a black pearl, white pearl and tiny diamond chips. We celebrated our success with a couple of Caramel Frappucinos at the local Starbucks (another part of the outing that would not have tempted my husband).

This daughter made several appearances during our vacation. I stood beside her while we watched dolphins playing at dusk. We raced together to get back to the air-conditioned rental car before our ice cream cones melted in the afternoon heat. We rode bikes side-by-side through a mangrove swamp. We counted gecko lizards and collected shells. We made microwave popcorn and convinced my mother-in-law to watch an episode of Glee. (The grandmother in question enjoyed all "the singing and dancing." Happily, she didn't pick up on the more off-color bits of dialogue.) We looked at the new issue of Seventeen and agreed that the "most embarrassing" stories in the 'Traumarama' column were pretty silly, but that the Converse All-Stars were pretty cool and she probably needed a couple of pairs for the summer.

It's very easy to like this daughter and, indeed, I like her very much.

Then, I have my daughter's dreadful doppelgänger. She probably didn't want to feel left out so she made several appearances on our vacation as well. Often, technology was involved. If our perfectly lovely daughter was texting a friend, for example, and we innocently asked her to put her cell phone away because we were driving along a particularly gorgeous stretch of beach at sunset and didn't want her to miss it ... POOF! Daughter number one would magically disappear and in her place would be the other.

Daughter number two has the same green eyes, the same shoulder-length blonde hair. She wears the same clothes and answers to the same name. But, we are not so easily fooled. The exasperated sound effects, the over exaggerated eye-rolling, the car door slamming, the bedroom door slamming, the bathroom door slamming ... these precious attributes belong to her and her alone.

Impervious to mortal hours, the other can show up at any time. She can as easily appear at the breakfast table when we insist that she can have chocolate chip muffins or a pop-tart, not both, as she can show her face at bedtime when we declare lights out after she's had two full hours of the latest volume of Gossip Girl.

She is smart, this second daughter. She doesn't hesitate to use her rapier wit or to boldly point out injustices to us, her oppressors. She can be ungrateful. She can be surly. She can whine, whinge and mutter vaguely veiled swear words under her breath with the best of them.

This daughter can be very difficult to like.

So here's what I do ...

When the other takes over, I tell myself that it isn't her fault. My darling daughter is still there beneath the curling lip and furled brow. She's just temporarily possessed by a blonde, green-eyed tween demon. With the proper rituals — and depending on the situation (and my fortitude), these could include consequences or capitulation — the demon eventually goes back to wherever she lives when she's not inhabiting my daughter's size 0 Abercrombie jeans.

Being the mother of a tween is a bit like bargain hunting. You get two for the price of one.