Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Going through a phase
Luanne Traud
Recent columns
- Marking a difficult anniversary
- My daughter, the voter
- A few new Voices would be nice
- A rush to legislate
From the RoundTable blog
Patience, the mother reminds herself, not for the first time and, Lord knows, certainly not for the last. As she waits an unbearably long time for the teen to emerge from her friend's house -- she'll be just a sec, honest -- the mother remembers that 14 years ago she made a decision: Nothing this child does would irritate her. Not an infant's colic or a toddler's tantrums or a homework crying jag. Because nothing the child currently pulls will be as bad as what will follow.
The mother, having been through this twice before, knew that whatever phase the child entered eventually would pass.
This knowledge allowed patience to come easy the first 14 years. But now, well now, is different. People who innocently inquire about the child's age often place a warm hand on the mother's shoulder and say, "I'm so sorry." They know, just as the mother does, that around the age of 12, aliens snatch sweet babies and replace them with forgetful, wasteful, moody replicas that require 45 minute showers twice a day, 15 hours of sleep on Saturdays and repeated reminders to control emotional outbursts. They resemble their children in name only. They act differently. They even look different. Friends become the center of their universe.
The mother knows the daughter will mature into human form at age 16, which magically coincides with the promise of a driver's license. This privilege has brought countless teens back to Earth.
In the meantime, the mother finds it hard not to lecture about the colossal waste of energy, veering into the "do you have any idea how much electricity costs?" rant, as she moves through the house snapping off televisions, radios and every light in the house. Her words are lost on the teen, deafened by the music pumped to her brain via earbuds while simultaneously typing instant messages on AOL and text messages on the cell phone. The teen's multitasking abilities border on awesome, except it's beyond her reach to remember simple things, like returning a glass to the kitchen, rolling the garbage can to the curb, turning off a light.
The teen's growing irresponsibility bothers the mother.
If the mother hears "I forgot" or even sees the phrase form on the teen's lips, she knows, just knows, it is then that she will blow up.
But she promised herself, she wouldn't. Instead she attempts communication. The mother should have been ready, but still the teen catches her off guard a few weeks ago when she asks if she can "go" with a boy. Sure, she realizes she is still too young to "go out" with a boy. This is different. As best the mother can determine, to go with a boy means he calls, IMs, texts, passes notes, and you pledge your like for eternity, a week or until someone else likes you.
Since the teen went (the mother isn't sure that is the correct past tense of "go" for this particular usage) with the first boy, several have followed. Some have repeated. It's all very confusing.
The mother attempts to keep up with names and brief descriptions, and she has spent an inordinate amount of time worrying about the irresistible, charming allure of bad boys.
She thinks about these things while slumped in the car, waiting for the teen to reappear from her friend's house. What could take so long? A stupid question to ask when it takes the teen 30 minutes to brush her hair into a ponytail. The teen lost her sense of time, so the mother decides to remind her. She calls the teen's phone; it rings beside her in the car.
The mother supposes she could knock on the door, but she is too tired to move. Instead, she reaches for the teen's phone to retrieve the friend's number. The teen has missed some calls; one is from Ice.
Ice? That sounds like a bad boy name. Why hasn't the teen spoken about Ice? What is she hiding?
The teen returns just then, and the mother pounces, "Who's Ice?"
"That's you," the teen answers. "They're always lecturing us at school that if we're in an accident or something, people will look on our cell phone for an In Case of Emergency number. So I put you."
Hmm, the mother thinks, that sounds far too responsible. This too, she realizes, will pass.
