The Teen Wars
My wife is not ready for the drama that is a pre-teen girl. Our pre-teen girl. She who is 10 _ and will not go quietly into her teen years. No, it will be bad. It will be ugly. My wife will cry.
I, however, am prepared.
As long as there’s a nearly-full bottle of Rebel Yell bourbon in the liquor cabinet.
In the space of 24 hours, our little girl got into an argument over a text message to my wife’s cell, got called a bitch, cried, decided she wanted to invite the little girl who called her a bitch to lunch, had an issue at daycare (more tears) when another little girl told her she “had problems,” came home, pulled her patented “my food can’t touch” stunt at dinner and then caused my wife to scream _ a ghastly, half-moan, half-scream that caught both kids off-guard _ when she related the trials and tribulations of her very long day.
“I am just not ready for this,” my wife said, after she banished both kids from the kitchen to have 15 minutes of “adult time.”
These moments are too few _ and too far in-between. But I digress.
Here’s how the latest trauma started: At 10:40 p.m. the other night, my wife’s cell gets a text from the cell of my daughter’s little friend (why anyone would buy a cell for a 10-year-old, and not supervise it, I’ll never know). “Who is this? Your number was on my fone” was the text.
I was all for not having this particular friend call the house _ or any telephone linked to it.
“Ever?” my wife asked.
“You betcha.”
I settled for telling my daughter the she was to tell the little girl that she could call the house once a day (not the five or six hang-up calls we got last all last week). The girl denied that she had texted my wife’s cell in the first place.
“She lied right to my face,” my daughter said. “Then she called me the B word.”
“And how did you handle this?”
“I told Miss Morrison.” Ahh, squeal to the teacher, how typically girly.
Our conversation took place at 5 p.m.; at 3 p.m., our daughter called my wife to see if she could take both girls to lunch.
“I swear, you’re going to be a battered wife, if you can’t learn to stand up for yourself,” my wife said.
I can’t even begin to explain the trouble at daycare. All I know is I walked in the door and the owner pulled me aside to tell me there were “tears, and many issues.”
“I finally had to tell them to get out of the bedroom and come play a game.”
Mostly, I take an active role in all this _ the role of being mildly amused, and somewhat detached (that whole plausible deniability thing). My little girl does know, however, that shit runs downhill at my house. She’s still afraid to cross me (“Your punishments grow exponentially,” she said).
That _ and bourbon _ should keep me set for the teen battles.
At least for another few months.
I, however, am prepared.
As long as there’s a nearly-full bottle of Rebel Yell bourbon in the liquor cabinet.
In the space of 24 hours, our little girl got into an argument over a text message to my wife’s cell, got called a bitch, cried, decided she wanted to invite the little girl who called her a bitch to lunch, had an issue at daycare (more tears) when another little girl told her she “had problems,” came home, pulled her patented “my food can’t touch” stunt at dinner and then caused my wife to scream _ a ghastly, half-moan, half-scream that caught both kids off-guard _ when she related the trials and tribulations of her very long day.
“I am just not ready for this,” my wife said, after she banished both kids from the kitchen to have 15 minutes of “adult time.”
These moments are too few _ and too far in-between. But I digress.
Here’s how the latest trauma started: At 10:40 p.m. the other night, my wife’s cell gets a text from the cell of my daughter’s little friend (why anyone would buy a cell for a 10-year-old, and not supervise it, I’ll never know). “Who is this? Your number was on my fone” was the text.
I was all for not having this particular friend call the house _ or any telephone linked to it.
“Ever?” my wife asked.
“You betcha.”
I settled for telling my daughter the she was to tell the little girl that she could call the house once a day (not the five or six hang-up calls we got last all last week). The girl denied that she had texted my wife’s cell in the first place.
“She lied right to my face,” my daughter said. “Then she called me the B word.”
“And how did you handle this?”
“I told Miss Morrison.” Ahh, squeal to the teacher, how typically girly.
Our conversation took place at 5 p.m.; at 3 p.m., our daughter called my wife to see if she could take both girls to lunch.
“I swear, you’re going to be a battered wife, if you can’t learn to stand up for yourself,” my wife said.
I can’t even begin to explain the trouble at daycare. All I know is I walked in the door and the owner pulled me aside to tell me there were “tears, and many issues.”
“I finally had to tell them to get out of the bedroom and come play a game.”
Mostly, I take an active role in all this _ the role of being mildly amused, and somewhat detached (that whole plausible deniability thing). My little girl does know, however, that shit runs downhill at my house. She’s still afraid to cross me (“Your punishments grow exponentially,” she said).
That _ and bourbon _ should keep me set for the teen battles.
At least for another few months.
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