WARNING: THIS BLOG POST CONTAINS DEPRESSING THOUGHTS. READER DISCRETION ADVISED, ESPECIALLY ON A SNOWDAY THAT WAS PROBABLY PEACEFUL AND JOYOUS IN EVERY HOUSE EXCEPT OURS.
Oh, bring me some figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer.
Bring me back to the days when Fig and I shared a loving relationship that involved laughing at silly dogs in Dr. Seuss books and Fig pretending she was a dolphin, or a mermaid, when she took a bubble bath in our old yellow tub at night.
Today, I am a failure. A big fat failure with a capital F. Add Fig's Daddy to that too. I know I'm not the first or last mother of a teenager to feel that way, but I would not be writing honestly about "truth and beauty" if I buried this ugliness entirely and did not confront it on this little HP screen, and in this blog.
I am 49. I am battling my own issues. But that is no excuse for me to get overemotional when challenged by the Teenager in our home--Teenager with a capital T. No closetful of Tory Burch clothing, no treasure chest of MarieBelle chocolate, nothing could really take away the hollow, hateful feeling of being a bad monster. Mother, I mean.
I love the old Gidget movies and series, starring Sally Field. I own a couple of the DVDs. Maybe I want to live in TVland, and not just in real time, but back in the 1960s, back with squeaky-clean Gidget and her best friend Larue and the simple problems they had, like Gidg's older sister, Anne, reading her diary or Gidget telling the florist she had her driver's license when she didn't, so she could make deliveries. And the best thing about the series is that the problem arises, climbs to a crest and is all sewn up by the end of the episode, with a little help from wise Mr. Lawrence, Gidget's widowed professor dad. Plus, Gidget gets through it all in perfectly matched outfits, cute flippy hairdos and, when she's at her hometown California beach, colorful swimwear and beach hats.
Our Fig is so good, so full of promise and joy, all fair skin, auburn hair, contagious laugh, and an eye and a pen that tell intricate tales in her sketchbook and notebooks. Allow me to brag: She did an amazing drawing last month of Justin Pierre, the lead singer in Motion City Soundtrack, and presented it to him at a CD signing. He asked Fig to sign it, handing her his black Sharpie marker. She was beside herself. I was there, watching from behind the stretchy cord in the record store as she and her three friends met the band.
But she is trying to push us out of her life on some levels. Video-chatting privately and at great length, for example, until we have to insist we need to know the other (boy) chatee, and it becomes a big battle. Breaking the rules when she's grounded and heading to Starbucks to "do her homework" on her Dad's laptop--and miraculously, her friend shows up there too. I hope I am not betraying Fig by sharing these examples. [If you are reading this, Figgy, please don't be mad. I don't think I revealed any deeply personal details. But one day, when you are old and graying like me, you will wish you could read a capsule view of your teenage self written by your mother. And in confronting what is going on, I am truly trying to be a better, and calmer, mother.]
I hate myself more than she could ever hate me when I spin out of control and lose my cool. I end up feeling about 2 inches tall. Surely there are right and wrong ways to lose your cool, and I hereby vow to try and grow toward the light and find the right ones.
I tried to bury it all in the loud, illicit crunch of Fritos, but almost every store in town was closed due to the big snow. The one that was open, Kings, was out of small bags and big bags. Not a single Frito in sight. The cashier helped me look. I could not then CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH so noisily that I blocked out my painful thoughts. I got some pretzel-Sun Chip snack mix, a poor substitute. I was proud that I did not get donuts, ice cream, cake, cookies or candy--sweets to sink my sorrow into. In the past, I would have. I am trying hard to take steps toward a healthier life.
But why should I be protecting my heart, trying to eat more healthfully, if it is broken already?
I told you this would be depressing.
We want some figgy pudding
We want some figgy pudding
We want some figgy pudding
Please bring it right here!
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Next time you are feeling low call one of us fellow parents - we would be happy to commiserate!-Celia
ReplyDeletePS do you ever watch "The Middle" on Wednesday nights? It's a comedy about a family with three kids, two of whom are teens. Makes you realize you're not alone.
Oh, honey, I so hear you. I know in the darkness of the rage and confusion and guilt, it's not much help, but in the morning, when it subsides, when all feels a little bit more balanced, knowing you are not alone does help.
ReplyDeleteHaving a terrible time with M. right now. Same age, similar conflicts, same swirl of emotions and mistakes and love and passions. I agree, keep working toward the light -- it sets the example we want for them, too. but also, be kind to yourself. Your love for Fig shines thru even to her.
Hi Celia and Hi Kim. Thank you so much for your support. It really makes me feel less alone. Last night when I went to pick up Teenager at friend's house in blizzard, was talking to her mom. She said she has experienced it on both ends, as mother and daughter. Celia, expect a call from me! Kim, you and F are very good parents.....I know you will find your way with M., who is very sweet. I guess I wish we had a road map to predict. But then again, it's probably better to just embrace the good moments and weather the bad ones. love alice
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