Say anything.
I dare you. Talk about politics. Science. Economics. Interpersonal relationships. Education. Taxes. Feminism. Racism. Ageism.
Anything.
Don't forget the small stuff: the icebreakers and one-off conversations.
Mention the level of rainfall or the size of the apple crop. Say you think the weather is lovely this time of year or that the fall colors have been majestic, and watch as my 12-year-old wizens her face and disagrees.
Any little thing you say aloud will elicit its equal and opposite reaction at an even higher decibel level.
It's practically her job.
Oh, and by the way, that's not blue I'm wearing. It's more of a green-hued gray to be precise.
But I'm not bitter.
I realize that she is waking up; stretching her legs; and finding that cold, hard floor under her feet smarts a little when she presses the whole of her weight against it first thing in the morning.
It's not easy growing up.
And it can feel like the world is against you.
Everyone makes mistakes. Not enough folks apologize.
Which is why at dinner we are now treated to long recitations of misgivings and micro-aggressions that are weighing on the psyches of middle schoolers everywhere.
Especially hers.
Teachers are the worst. They just assume things and move on. Mocking as they go. It's so unfair.
Even when they are wrong, they don't apologize. It's dispiriting.
Of course, she doesn't want me to agree. Or disagree. Or say anything.
I can't possibly understand …
And she already knows what I'm going to say.
“Life isn't always fair.”
Adults don't know everything. They make mistakes. They don't always own up. And, sadly, you don't always win the argument because you happen to be correct.
“You never take my side.”
“I am always on your side, but being on your side doesn't mean it's always going to be comfortable. Like right now, you are like a thousand degrees of fire-spitting rage standing next to me, an arguably dried up old straw of human. My job is to hose you down, so you don't light me and everything around us on fire.”
Not a comfortable position, I might add.
She, understandably, stomps up to her room, where she slams the door and turns up the volume of her electronic thing-ama-whats.
Her father wonders where she gets it from, giving me side eye and half-laughing about our own arguments over which of my word choices – “Watch out” or “Look out” -- would imply operator blame since it was so clearly the pedestrian's fault for lurking in a blind spot.
"Just let her cool off," I tell him telepathically. "Don't go upstairs."
He goes up to talk to her.
More raised voices. More slammed doors.
Each of them blaming the other: "You don't understand!"
"No, YOU don't understand. I'm just trying to help! "
I realize she comes by this naturally. It's part of her genetic code.
All the huffing and puffing and stomping around isn't something she invented. Somebody else wrote that play she's just the most recent performer in our house to be cast in the title role.
“Do you understand?” he asks me upon his return from the circle of hell that is an unhappy middle schooler's bedroom.
Of course, I understand.
I just can't say anything that will change it.
I dare you. Talk about politics. Science. Economics. Interpersonal relationships. Education. Taxes. Feminism. Racism. Ageism.
Anything.
Don't forget the small stuff: the icebreakers and one-off conversations.
Mention the level of rainfall or the size of the apple crop. Say you think the weather is lovely this time of year or that the fall colors have been majestic, and watch as my 12-year-old wizens her face and disagrees.
Any little thing you say aloud will elicit its equal and opposite reaction at an even higher decibel level.
It's practically her job.
Oh, and by the way, that's not blue I'm wearing. It's more of a green-hued gray to be precise.
But I'm not bitter.
I realize that she is waking up; stretching her legs; and finding that cold, hard floor under her feet smarts a little when she presses the whole of her weight against it first thing in the morning.
It's not easy growing up.
And it can feel like the world is against you.
Everyone makes mistakes. Not enough folks apologize.
Which is why at dinner we are now treated to long recitations of misgivings and micro-aggressions that are weighing on the psyches of middle schoolers everywhere.
Especially hers.
Teachers are the worst. They just assume things and move on. Mocking as they go. It's so unfair.
Even when they are wrong, they don't apologize. It's dispiriting.
Of course, she doesn't want me to agree. Or disagree. Or say anything.
I can't possibly understand …
And she already knows what I'm going to say.
“Life isn't always fair.”
Adults don't know everything. They make mistakes. They don't always own up. And, sadly, you don't always win the argument because you happen to be correct.
“You never take my side.”
“I am always on your side, but being on your side doesn't mean it's always going to be comfortable. Like right now, you are like a thousand degrees of fire-spitting rage standing next to me, an arguably dried up old straw of human. My job is to hose you down, so you don't light me and everything around us on fire.”
Not a comfortable position, I might add.
She, understandably, stomps up to her room, where she slams the door and turns up the volume of her electronic thing-ama-whats.
Her father wonders where she gets it from, giving me side eye and half-laughing about our own arguments over which of my word choices – “Watch out” or “Look out” -- would imply operator blame since it was so clearly the pedestrian's fault for lurking in a blind spot.
"Just let her cool off," I tell him telepathically. "Don't go upstairs."
He goes up to talk to her.
More raised voices. More slammed doors.
Each of them blaming the other: "You don't understand!"
"No, YOU don't understand. I'm just trying to help! "
I realize she comes by this naturally. It's part of her genetic code.
All the huffing and puffing and stomping around isn't something she invented. Somebody else wrote that play she's just the most recent performer in our house to be cast in the title role.
“Do you understand?” he asks me upon his return from the circle of hell that is an unhappy middle schooler's bedroom.
Of course, I understand.
I just can't say anything that will change it.
No comments:
Post a Comment