Trigger Warning: Parenting a teenage girl. **Do not read if you are considering having a teenage girl.
Veruca reached a milestone this year. She was promoted from middle school last night, and in a few short months will be a high school freshman. I’ve been more or less indifferent to this particular passage, being otherwise distracted by Opac’s High School Graduation, which commandeered a herculean effort to maintain emotional composure. (More on that in another post.)
Veruca has finally mastered the magnet-to-drama test. Obviously this isn’t exactly a newsflash, if you’ve read any of my previous posts from the last 8 years. But the 8th Grade Social took us to a new level of drama and now I know why my mom always laughed at me and it wasn’t just because she was probably high.
Mom and I took V on her annual birthday shopping trip a few weeks ago, to King of Prussia. I grew up shopping there – the Plaza and the Court – which have evolved into an impressive and massive complex of stores. We spent SIX HOURS shopping. The stamina gene for this has clearly skipped a generation, because the two of them wore me out. Like, panting outside of stores, worn out. Like, I need a wheelchair, worn out. I was posting to Facebook pleading for reinforcements. All I had was iced tea, because I still had to drive home – as it turned out – in rush hour.
V likes clothes, shoes, accessories, Bath & Body Works, and makeup. We were also on the hunt for a dress for this Social/Dance, which I suggested we start with but no one listened to me. Side note: the principal send an email blast a while back advising parents that there was no need to go out and buy a fancy dress. Well, let me tell you, there’s a new generation of kids growing up who are rapidly devaluing the long-traditional rites of passage like “prom” and “graduation.” Freakin middle school girls are wearing PROM GOWNS to a social in the cafeteria. Uh, and then there’s the 8th grade Promotion dress. (For perspective, O wore shorts and a t-shirt to his 8th grade Promotion.)
Anyway. SIX HOURS of shopping in I-lost-count stores and NO DRESS. She spent hours online looking at dresses. I ended up ordering her a RTR* dress, which she said to order and then when it arrived she didn’t really like it and apparently Faith, one of her many middle school fashion consultants, told her it looked like an old lady dress. The next two days were filled with drama over this dress and with 24 hours to go I said, I really don’t care if you wear it or not. I don’t care.
The day of the dance she was STILL not ready after two and a half hours. She was still fussing over her hair. She was still bitching about the dress. But after I VERY nonchalantly told her, fine don’t wear the dress, and did NOT react to her drama, she ended up wearing the dress. I buttoned her up. She disappeared into her room and a few minutes later came out and asked me to button it again.
What did you do that I have to button this again? Nevermind.
Then her shoes were already hurting her feet and did I have some flats she could borrow? I don’t own dressy flats. She went into my closet with me and pulled out a pair of jeweled BCBG sandals I’d gifted myself on my birthday the year of the divorce. I told her they don’t match her dress, and she’s NOT wearing them. (She’s clutzy sometimes and I pictured these shoes coming back to me, straps broken.)
Fine, I’ll just have to wear my shoes and my feet will just have to hurt all night. Yep. (At this point she commented that obviously I don’t care that her feet will hurt.)
Then she complained about her pump*, so I told her to put the clip on it and clip it to the back of her dress. We did that, and I noticed one of the buttons I literally just buttoned was missing. Okay so now maybe I’m not quite so calm anymore. I went into her room, carpeted with every piece of clothing she owns, and started picking them up one-by-one looking for this tiny, fabric button and cursing under my breath.
Meanwhile, it dawned on me that it likely popped off when she bent to buckle her shoes – where did you put on your shoes? I don’t know. What do you mean “you don’t know?” Big dramatic sigh. In the kitchen. And lo and behold, there it was, under the chair. And THEN I had to sew the button back on while she’s in the dress and I prayed like hell I wouldn’t stab her with the needle. I was SO pissed off at her and all the bullshit I actually told her I didn’t care if she even went to this dance.
And THEN… it’s too late now to get to Reena’s for pictures and OMG she told Mel that we’d give her a ride to the dance (news to me)… and I told her to call and find out. It wasn’t too late. I was glad because I wanted to get pictures, which is when she flipped out and told me I wasn’t getting out of the car. Bwahahaha! Like HELL I’m waiting in the car. None of the other parents will either, but she doesn’t believe me until we get there and by the time we get to Reena’s back yard she is all angelic smiles and sweetness and I have whiplash.
The next morning we get up early to drive to her dad’s house and she wakes up nastier than a rattlesnake. As she storms out the door, Todd asks if she’s getting her period. Okay so – before ya’ll get your panties twisted – my husband is NOT a chauvinistic pig and it was a joke meant for me only, as we often share wildly inappropriate jokes between us and ya’ll can’t deny you’ve done it too. Nevertheless, he walked me out to the car where she was already sulking in the passenger seat, wished me a fun ride, and I fake-wailed as he hugged me goodbye.
I get into the car and, I heard what he said and IT’S NOT FUNNY, she hissed at me. It was a joke, V, and I’m sorry if it upset you. Well, IT DID. Three beats of silence… and you better not tell him when I get my period because it’s none of his business. Pulling away from the house: I would never do that and besides, He Doesn’t Care. Yes you would – I know how you are. You’re right – I’m gonna put up a big sign in the front yard so all the neighbors know.
That apparently wasn’t funny either and she went ballistic. As IF. I’m finding that my new milestone is a sense of humor over teenage drama – which is probably just a combination of don’t GAF and pure survival.
The conversation turned to college – how she wants to go to Columbia and she guesses she won’t be able to go there because it’s too expensive, and I mentioned scholarships. You probably think I’m too dumb to go there. And I’m too dumb to get scholarships. Smelling a trap – I tell her that that’s just silly, and that I believe in her. It didn’t work. She’ll just have to go to a State school and apparently I think O is smarter than her (because he’s going to a private college) and I’m going to make her go to community college. (This is a very sensitive statement that has taken an ugly turn and I refuse to engage.)
She was clearly in a very dark mood and she was unable to gauge the reach of her daggers at this point. I will not post what she said. But take note: I did not engage. I just answered her with a level of calm reserved for stoners and that’s when she said it.
What’s WRONG with you?
What’s wrong with ME? (incredulous expression)
Yeah. You’re so…CHILL.
I say nothing, because – I’m so wrong.
And I. Don’t. Like. It.
I’m Chill, and it’s wrong.
Mom – 1
Veruca – 0
*RTR = Rent the Runway. Used for most of my events where I need a dress. Highly recommend. Designer gowns those of us could never afford to buy, that will make you feel fabulous for a night and guaranteed to bring loads of compliments from complete strangers. (I’m not being paid for this endorsement, but would gladly accept a free rental from them.)
*Pump = Insulin pump.