Well, it’s finally happened, friends. The dreaded “I hate you” came spewing forth from my 13-year-old after I grounded her, along with an evil stare worthy of Damien himself. I replied, “I love you!” But as soon as she slammed her bedroom door, I burst into tears. Teenage girls!
I should have known my time would come. My older daughter has been a relatively drama-free child. I don’t know whether she bottles it all up and vomits her vitriol quietly in the night or if she’s one of those kids that is rarely phased by anything, hormones be damned. Regardless, I’ve been lulled into a false sense of security that running the mom-of-girls marathon would be over a flat course with frequent hydration stops and plenty of motivational signs.
Wrong! I can’t say anything right. I’m either too “up in her grill” or not involved enough, and all of my rules are stupid. Furthermore, none of her friends have ever been grounded, and how does keeping her home on a Saturday night teach her anything, anyway? “Don’t talk to me!”
Ugh, I hate this discipline stuff. Mothers are programmed to make their babies happy, not ruin their lives, which, according to her, I’m clearly intent upon doing. And Doo’s out of town, which means I’m in the parenting ring alone against a strong-willed eighth-grader who’s not afraid to throw a sucker punch.
I know I’m doing the right thing and that she’s merely testing her boundaries, but sweet mercy. If this is a sign of things to come, I’m in deep trouble. Is it too late to switch to a 3K, boys-only?
Peace out.
