I live with a teenager now. Not a toddler. Not a kid. A teenager. A breed unto themselves. A komodo dragon in Doc Martens with lots of bangles and a topknot.
I talk. I inquire. I chat. I joke. I speak softly and lovingly while looking deep into her squinty eyes.
She harrumphs. She rolls her eyes. She nods. She grunts. Apparently she can no longer speak. She sits in her room and plays her guitar while I sit and worry that she will end up living in a van down by the river.
In my mind I see my mother cackling and chortling and chanting “Payback! Payback!”
We’ve always goofed around. Talked. Reminisced. Disagreed about where the dirty socks would go. I’ve dreamed of a relationship like a feminine hygiene ad. You know, mothers and daughter’s walking by the water. (Sidetrack…Need a giggle.. check out the Tom Yohn song – Feminine Hygiene). Seaside bonding and deep philosophical talks about the awesomeness of womanhood.
I was not prepared for the silence. The sullenness. Teenage angst is about as understandable to me as affordable health care.
I’ve considered parenting books. But that’s like reading 100 Ways To Survive Diaster while your hurtling over a cliff.
I have found, and you will not discover this nugget of wisdom in a book, that the “Hot Pockets” theme song torments her like nails on a chalk board. She is left with no choice but to emerge from behind the thorny curtain of her teenage brooding long enough to snarl “How old are you?”. Which is pleasing to me. Which means I have to do it again. And again. Just so I can hear the dulcet tones of my little girl.
Rocky Dog thinks I’m awesome. And he likes my singing.
So if you were looking to annoy, I mean parent, a sullen teenager – what would be your song of choice?
Joyfully singing to a cranky teenager,
Franny
