My daughter was an extraordinary archer. We found out by accident, when our petite flower picked up my mother's 50 year old weapon and popped off a clean shot. Her tiny piano wire arms pulling a third of her body weight.
We brought her to a school that was tied to the JOAD program. That is short for Junior Olympic Archery Development. There was a kid in her school with a world record. His parents built an archery range through the middle of their house so he could shoot inside in the winter. Her coach had tutored Olympians. When he saw her, he begged us to keep her there for six years when she would be open to opportunities like that. She was that gifted. We would post her scores and pictures of her targets with the arrows sticking out of the center gold on Facebook that our friends and relatives would cheer on.
We don't have much money. Our families saw the passion that she had and did everything they could to support her for two years. They paid for classes, brought her equipment. Her first year, Santa gave her her very own bow so that she didn't have to rent it for school.
Every Saturday my husband and I would drive her 45 minutes to the school. We would tie it into our weekly Costco grocery shopping. One of us would sneak out and bring back coffee. We would buy her a snickers bar and, later, M&Ms from the store in the school so that we would get through to lunch. It was a family affair that went on for over a year, with the daughter our central focus, growing in ranks. Breaking over 200 and continuing to a much harder level.
Money knocked us out one summer. We were just not around long enough weekends to justify the full price we had to pay (usually in the fall we were pro-rated). When we finally returned, the daughter's body had hit a growth spurt, something very hard on an archer because the bones and the muscles grow at separate times. The coach fell ill and the teacher running the class didn't seem to do much more than run through the process. The daughter was in tears, feeling the pressure of, in her head, failure. Her score fell way below what would have been her normal growth rate. She grew sad and discouraged. When her coach returned, he tried his best to lift her enthusiasm back to where it had been but you could tell, she just felt like a failure even though no one else thought so.
The summer came around again. Our family once again couldn't justify the money. The daughter had lost the joy and the family lost our Saturdays together when we would wake up bitching that we had to drive together so far away every week. That we had made this commitment to each other and cheer on the child that eventually lost the joy in her gift, our family event.
We spoke to her about returning. We realize that it has to be her choice, that by forcing her it will kill the love for the sport entirely that she stepped into with such wonderful talent. You could tell that we were offering her the option to try fully expecting her to fold. And she didn't.
Today I take her back to the range, just to shoot for fun. The way it was before it became something that made her feel like a failure because her body gave out on her for a little while. Maybe even I will try it. I shouldn't. I can't afford it. But it may be worth it just to make her laugh and want to come back more.
I miss those awful cold mornings burning gas to go watch a child be brilliantly dangerous with a medieval weapon, running out to Dunks and sitting together on the metal chairs trying not to whoop when she hit the gold with her dad video taping the scores on his phone's camera, "And she shoot....ooh! A nine! Nice, Baby!" Maybe someday she will love it again. Maybe some day our family
can pile into the car on a Saturday morning and stop at Costco on the
way home. Either way, I hope this is a childhood memory of her family she will keep in her heart when she is older, touching her old bow fondly that I hope she will always keep near by, proud of her great talent that will always be there.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
The Year Of The Protestor
I went to a very small school when "The Prom".....a prom so fierce it had a "The" attached to it at all times.....was thrown by the Junior class. We only had one because the gymnasium could only take the distraction of so many activities sporadically in a school that had all classes Kindergarten through 12th grade using it. I was on the prom committee and I took my duty very very seriously.
The Prom Committee had two advisers. I could only remember one though because he is engraved in my head for eternity and here's why. The Prom Committee's duty was all encompassing. We chose the punch, we chose the decorations, we chose The Prom Band. In order to judge the proficiency of our The Prom Band candidates, they were played on a tape deck in the central school's main office into a microphone that aired into the classroom on the upstairs "not for elementary grade students" floor. The quality was wonky at best.
The adviser that I can remember was a gym teacher. A large man with a booming voice with mannerisms that inspired snickering and disrespect from most of the puberty ridden jackasses with homophobic tendencies in the school. They called him "Gay-o." It was awful and I felt bad about that but not bad enough to say anything and draw attention to myself. I had been picked on pretty fiercely myself in the past and things had finally turned around. The adviser was unaware of my sympathy and entirely aware of the disrespect. So when I was trying so so hard to hear The Next Prom Band Candidate and he continued to speak, I shushed. Not at him. Just....shushed.
But that is not what he heard. He heard, "Shut. Up." Or probably even, "Shut the fuck up." He stormed out of the room. A few minutes later, I hear over the loud speaker, "Jessica Curtis, please report to the principals office." And I wet myself a little.
I was terrified of being bad in school. This, ironically, coming from a kid who smoked cigarettes in the woods behind my house in the 5th grade. It's not that I never did bad things. I just didn't want to be perceived as disrespectful and a thug. Being seen as bad was a fear on phobic levels. This was my worst nightmare. I don't know what I did but whatever it was, I was innocent.
I spent three days in the principals office refusing detention. The adviser said that I was delinquent, snarky (or whatever it was we called it in the '80's), and intentionally attacked him. I cried. I denied. And I protested. I had never done such a thing in my life, whatever it was I was supposed to have done. I wasn't going to detention. It was wrong.
The second day into my protest, the principal tried to negotiate it into palatible terms, "Hey. It's only detention. It's not like its going on your permanent record. Just take it and get on with life." And I would respond, "But I didn't dooooooooo anyth-th-th-th---," insert hysterical weeping. The adviser argued. I cried.
On the third day, the principal acknowledged that I was one of the most stubborn human beings on the planet, that we were going to be in that office through summer break if it kept going that way and gave up.
It takes a lot of anger and fear for Annoyed to evolve into Protest. It has to become something so intolerable that you are willing to put yourself into a gravely uncomfortable situation. In my minor case, it was the achilles heel of being seen as something that I never in a million years would be. It was an injustice that I could not let slide.
The husband has informed me that Time magazine has named The Protestor as their person of the year for 2011. Interesting and wonderful to reward the brave. Bravo, Time Magazine! I love it. It is deserved.
Thousands and thousands of people around the planet hit that point this year, the point of intolerance. To give up their comfortable homes and lives for indefinite periods of time because they believed that their presence would make a difference when the joined others with similar ideals. Some died, suffered criminal abuse, lost their families . Some lived in tents in the middle of urban sprawl for months. Many were attacked by the people that were supposed be protecting them by law. And many many many changed their world and ours. Because they knew that if they stuck their heels in and committed to their beliefs, they could say that they lived their lives with integrity and did something instead of standing by helplessly, accepting the raw deal that was being given to them. Enough. Intolerant. Protest.
The Prom Committee had two advisers. I could only remember one though because he is engraved in my head for eternity and here's why. The Prom Committee's duty was all encompassing. We chose the punch, we chose the decorations, we chose The Prom Band. In order to judge the proficiency of our The Prom Band candidates, they were played on a tape deck in the central school's main office into a microphone that aired into the classroom on the upstairs "not for elementary grade students" floor. The quality was wonky at best.
The adviser that I can remember was a gym teacher. A large man with a booming voice with mannerisms that inspired snickering and disrespect from most of the puberty ridden jackasses with homophobic tendencies in the school. They called him "Gay-o." It was awful and I felt bad about that but not bad enough to say anything and draw attention to myself. I had been picked on pretty fiercely myself in the past and things had finally turned around. The adviser was unaware of my sympathy and entirely aware of the disrespect. So when I was trying so so hard to hear The Next Prom Band Candidate and he continued to speak, I shushed. Not at him. Just....shushed.
But that is not what he heard. He heard, "Shut. Up." Or probably even, "Shut the fuck up." He stormed out of the room. A few minutes later, I hear over the loud speaker, "Jessica Curtis, please report to the principals office." And I wet myself a little.
I was terrified of being bad in school. This, ironically, coming from a kid who smoked cigarettes in the woods behind my house in the 5th grade. It's not that I never did bad things. I just didn't want to be perceived as disrespectful and a thug. Being seen as bad was a fear on phobic levels. This was my worst nightmare. I don't know what I did but whatever it was, I was innocent.
 | |||
| Thug |
The second day into my protest, the principal tried to negotiate it into palatible terms, "Hey. It's only detention. It's not like its going on your permanent record. Just take it and get on with life." And I would respond, "But I didn't dooooooooo anyth-th-th-th---," insert hysterical weeping. The adviser argued. I cried.
On the third day, the principal acknowledged that I was one of the most stubborn human beings on the planet, that we were going to be in that office through summer break if it kept going that way and gave up.
It takes a lot of anger and fear for Annoyed to evolve into Protest. It has to become something so intolerable that you are willing to put yourself into a gravely uncomfortable situation. In my minor case, it was the achilles heel of being seen as something that I never in a million years would be. It was an injustice that I could not let slide.
The husband has informed me that Time magazine has named The Protestor as their person of the year for 2011. Interesting and wonderful to reward the brave. Bravo, Time Magazine! I love it. It is deserved.
Thousands and thousands of people around the planet hit that point this year, the point of intolerance. To give up their comfortable homes and lives for indefinite periods of time because they believed that their presence would make a difference when the joined others with similar ideals. Some died, suffered criminal abuse, lost their families . Some lived in tents in the middle of urban sprawl for months. Many were attacked by the people that were supposed be protecting them by law. And many many many changed their world and ours. Because they knew that if they stuck their heels in and committed to their beliefs, they could say that they lived their lives with integrity and did something instead of standing by helplessly, accepting the raw deal that was being given to them. Enough. Intolerant. Protest.
Shampoop
I hate certain scents. It's hard to tell if I am actually allergic to them or just hate them so much that they dry out my mouth and make it hard to breathe. Things like fabric softener and Mountain Fresh Scent in laundry detergent. If a person has really loaded it on, I can't be on the same side of the room with them. So, in lieu of risking a wheezy whiney wife and having to buy a 10 dollar bottle of laundry soap, the husband began to make our own. And, besides having to own a large pot to stir it in and a place to put it, it is fairly simple. And wicked inexpensive. It made us take a step back and begin to suspect that there was very little reason for the prices attached to these all natural green products beyond greed and we began to look for other things to make, leading us into the wild and woolly world of home made cleansing and body products.
Okay. Maybe not wild. Or woolly, really. But I live with a scientist. Figuring out percentages in ounces can be fun. I swear.
We have begun to put together different products to start a line of skin creams, body oils and soaps. I don't want to tell you how because when we build our Etsy empire to be followed by our mail order empire to be followed by our vendor table at street fair empire, I want you to NEED us. But the truth is, you really don't. The advantage we have over you is that we invested in the basics...which pay for themselves really quickly....and we have been experimenting with different varieties of smells and textures. Also, when it comes to soap, there is the issue of some math to be done to make the fat vs. lye balanced. But, between you and me and the wall, it takes balls to charge 5 bucks for a bar of soap if you knew how much a batch costs and how much you get in it. Unless there is money cooked into that fancy hippy soap, you are getting schtupped.
The laundry soap costs about three bucks a batch. All natural. Three ingredients. Cleans great. It looks a little weird, but so what.
I found a recipe for dishwashing detergent. Again under three bucks for a gallon of this stuff.
We also make our own mozzerella cheese. Super super easy. Renin, Citric acid, milk and some salt. Takes twenty minutes. If you screw it up, it is ricotta.
The husband makes his own beer and wine. Okay. THAT is a little more expensive because you have to have equipment, but, really, after all is said and done, he gets a lot of hootch that would cost way more in the store and he has say about the elements that goes into it.
In the long run, it is good to know the basic elements that make a product work just to know what you is rubbing into your skin or onto your dishes that you eat from. But people who normally will analyze their food products down to the cow the milk came from don't think twice about what is exactly in the soap you are dumping into the clothes you are wearing as long as it is biodegradable and "green."
What is it? Really? At least consider that if you look at the recipes for some of these things, you will know what you are actually paying for. Because you will be astonished at how often you are paying for packaging and profit and then a little teeny bit of ingredient. And maybe you might want to take a shot at making your own.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
PTSD Night Time.
I used to hide until I could pass out and wake up when it seemed brighter and less dangerous. Till the feet on the floorboards stomping loudly finally came to an end. Until the voices stopped accusing and name calling. Till it would pass and we would have a few days to embrace the false sense of security that lay like a week glass over the monsters that rumbled under our world. Every time in adulthood when the night came around, I loved the safety of the peace far away from the monsters. Every time it was rattled, I felt betrayed, especially when the brain couldn't process the thoughts the same way, waking up every day not knowing how to think anymore, what new survival tools existed to keep me going. The world looked different and the new brain made me even more askew than the odd earthquake seizures that shook the rug out from under us. Frustration of helplessness and absolute exhaustion compounded by his frustration of not mattering when it wasn't convenient for my brain to be able to handle the needs of anything beyond survival. All of the guilty monsters eating at me for not being good enough to feel too hard and remind me that they were always there, now eating at him every night too. So I would hide in the night. Like I did as a child. Shut it all out. All of the bad monsters. Until now when the closet got too full of other new nightmares to hide them.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Ma Could Run Fast At 70....For Ma
My Ma is a physically remarkable person. I won't tell you how old she is because she thinks it is a horrible faux pas. Let's say she is way past 70 and doesn't look much older than that. It's a lucky genetic thing. Not everyone gets one of those.
Middle age is insulting. It does things to your body that you can't believe is happening to you. Like you were going to escape the same thing that has happened to every human being luck enough to survive such a thing. Aging, you bastard!
Sure, there are things that you can do no matter what your genetic code that is delivered to you to make it less horror show...to you. Exercise. Don't drink and smoke too much (aka the recipe for wrinkly bloat). Stretch. Don't stress. You know. The stuff that they tell you about in the thousands and thousands of articles in magazines under the sneaky guise, "Secrets To Anti-Aging." It's called taking care of yourself. Duh.
But sticking botulism in your face? Sucking the love handles out of your sides or under your chin just makes you less floppy in one place? Dying your hair a color that isn't fooling anyone? It ain't going to stop the clock. In fact, sometimes it just makes you look wrong.
There are perks to aging. You are over 35. It is now. It isn't the someday that you were dreading. Youthful years of adulthood are very very short in the scheme of a lifetime and when you cross the ranks of middle age, the symptoms of aging arrive out of nowhere. Those tight butts have a real quick shelf life. Reproduction years are waning and the biological reason for attracting others is fading out. Folk's hair falls out but maybe your hair was supposed to be temporary, the propensity to gain weight due to build will not allow any leeway at all ever again (kiss cheating on diets goodbye). Those love handles that have been giving you grief are going to pick up power against you in the fight but dammit you have great legs, your eyes will have wrinkles, your chin jawline will seem a little less tight but your little nose looks even more adorable in this face. It is supposed to be that way. And its going to happen.
At a certain age, you hit a point when being disappointed in what was given to you is just sad because you are finally at a time where you can be who you are. Doesn't mean it can't be the best exercised healthy form but shy of unnatural acts, it is your natural process. Trying to find approval in a youthful environment with the expectations of a youthful body is just going to make you feel like shit being beautiful exactly the way you are. If you are being punished for being your age, fuck 'em if they don't like it. You earned this body and there is relief in not having to be worried that you have to envy everyone with body parts you didn't naturally have in your genetic code.
My time bomb will go off completely one of these days, just hopefully on my Ma's clock with folks who find me perfect the way I am supposed to be or at least rejoice in how great I look next to people my own age. To me it seems like there is nothing sadder than see a person abuse themselves for being natural. Not lazy. Just natural.
Middle age is insulting. It does things to your body that you can't believe is happening to you. Like you were going to escape the same thing that has happened to every human being luck enough to survive such a thing. Aging, you bastard!
Sure, there are things that you can do no matter what your genetic code that is delivered to you to make it less horror show...to you. Exercise. Don't drink and smoke too much (aka the recipe for wrinkly bloat). Stretch. Don't stress. You know. The stuff that they tell you about in the thousands and thousands of articles in magazines under the sneaky guise, "Secrets To Anti-Aging." It's called taking care of yourself. Duh.
But sticking botulism in your face? Sucking the love handles out of your sides or under your chin just makes you less floppy in one place? Dying your hair a color that isn't fooling anyone? It ain't going to stop the clock. In fact, sometimes it just makes you look wrong.
There are perks to aging. You are over 35. It is now. It isn't the someday that you were dreading. Youthful years of adulthood are very very short in the scheme of a lifetime and when you cross the ranks of middle age, the symptoms of aging arrive out of nowhere. Those tight butts have a real quick shelf life. Reproduction years are waning and the biological reason for attracting others is fading out. Folk's hair falls out but maybe your hair was supposed to be temporary, the propensity to gain weight due to build will not allow any leeway at all ever again (kiss cheating on diets goodbye). Those love handles that have been giving you grief are going to pick up power against you in the fight but dammit you have great legs, your eyes will have wrinkles, your chin jawline will seem a little less tight but your little nose looks even more adorable in this face. It is supposed to be that way. And its going to happen.
At a certain age, you hit a point when being disappointed in what was given to you is just sad because you are finally at a time where you can be who you are. Doesn't mean it can't be the best exercised healthy form but shy of unnatural acts, it is your natural process. Trying to find approval in a youthful environment with the expectations of a youthful body is just going to make you feel like shit being beautiful exactly the way you are. If you are being punished for being your age, fuck 'em if they don't like it. You earned this body and there is relief in not having to be worried that you have to envy everyone with body parts you didn't naturally have in your genetic code.
My time bomb will go off completely one of these days, just hopefully on my Ma's clock with folks who find me perfect the way I am supposed to be or at least rejoice in how great I look next to people my own age. To me it seems like there is nothing sadder than see a person abuse themselves for being natural. Not lazy. Just natural.
The Box
Someone said the loveliest thing to me the other day. He said, "How are you?" And he meant it. It wasn't one of those trite moments in passing, not a verbal head nod. He really wanted to hear how my insides were doing with my outsides with no premeditated coercion. It is a selfless question when it is sincere. It says I care about you and I am not thinking about myself. It meant so much to me.
We live in a society that is often overwhelming. Sometimes our own problems are more that we can handle, let alone ingesting someone else's concerns voluntarily without a "me" twist to it. I know. I think it had been years since I had said it myself until recently.
I think sometimes we build boxes around ourselves that have to do lists taped in front of our noses. It is survival. If we can tick off the list, we win till the next list goes up but we made it to the end of the first one and that is all that matters. Sometimes we try to ignore the list for awhile by going further into our box, inundating ourselves with distractions and little highs but we always know the list is there, waiting for us with bullet points like Get Assignment Finished Or I Have No Future, Find Self Worth Through Approval of Another, Need New Underwear, Be Skinnier So That You Are A Better Person That People Want To Have Sex With Even Though I Don't Necessarily Want It Myself Because That Would Mean Thinking Of Other People, Write A Better Joke To Make A Life, etc. It doesn't leave much room to look outside of the box to truly give ourselves to another person on a simple basis because even outside of the box we are looking at it worrying about it being there.
How are you? I am thinking of you. Not me. Let me know how it is inside of your box. See if I can help you out in there a little. My heart is here for you if you wish to use it if yours isn't feeling so great. I give a shit about another human being.
I'm trying to do that more. Think about the feelings that are out there of the people I interact with instead of how the person is effecting me. It's hard. I'm not used to it. I have been surviving too long in my box. But, here's the catch with that stupid box, until you can see past the box of anger and fear and resentment and frustration....boxes are never made out of good feelings.... I strongly suspect a person can't get out of it, can't remember how wonderful "How Are You Doing?" feels to ask effortlessly without the string of "and how do you feel about me?" attached to it. It's a box. That's what they do.
We live in a society that is often overwhelming. Sometimes our own problems are more that we can handle, let alone ingesting someone else's concerns voluntarily without a "me" twist to it. I know. I think it had been years since I had said it myself until recently.
I think sometimes we build boxes around ourselves that have to do lists taped in front of our noses. It is survival. If we can tick off the list, we win till the next list goes up but we made it to the end of the first one and that is all that matters. Sometimes we try to ignore the list for awhile by going further into our box, inundating ourselves with distractions and little highs but we always know the list is there, waiting for us with bullet points like Get Assignment Finished Or I Have No Future, Find Self Worth Through Approval of Another, Need New Underwear, Be Skinnier So That You Are A Better Person That People Want To Have Sex With Even Though I Don't Necessarily Want It Myself Because That Would Mean Thinking Of Other People, Write A Better Joke To Make A Life, etc. It doesn't leave much room to look outside of the box to truly give ourselves to another person on a simple basis because even outside of the box we are looking at it worrying about it being there.
How are you? I am thinking of you. Not me. Let me know how it is inside of your box. See if I can help you out in there a little. My heart is here for you if you wish to use it if yours isn't feeling so great. I give a shit about another human being.
I'm trying to do that more. Think about the feelings that are out there of the people I interact with instead of how the person is effecting me. It's hard. I'm not used to it. I have been surviving too long in my box. But, here's the catch with that stupid box, until you can see past the box of anger and fear and resentment and frustration....boxes are never made out of good feelings.... I strongly suspect a person can't get out of it, can't remember how wonderful "How Are You Doing?" feels to ask effortlessly without the string of "and how do you feel about me?" attached to it. It's a box. That's what they do.
Anger Sandwich
The daughter has been stomping around a lot lately. I yelled down the hall this morning, "Don't forget your breakfast!" Then I heard her bare feet slamming into the hardwood in the living room, across the dining room, into the kitchen expounding her indigence against being TOLD WHAT TO DO with the slap of her weight. She knocked over the cereal, then slammed a cupboard. This part wasn't intentional. She was just in a tizzy from being TOLD WHAT TO DO.
Welcome to the early stages of puberty. Or, as I like to remember it, the winds shifting before the storm. Lots of unwarranted tears, overreacting and zits. We haven't gotten to the menses part of the show. Honestly, that's the part that bothers me the least. It's pretty cut and dry. "Here, put this here thing in this place and make sure you time it so there isn't a mess." I will refrain from saying things like, "Today you are a woman," because a) its creepy and b) its not true. She would still be a kid who got a period, not a woman. A kid with a 90 pound gorilla of estrogen shoved into a 70 pound body.
I don't think the period part is knocking at the door just yet anyway. Like I was, she is super skinny which tends to deter the onset of early menstruation. I didn't hit that part of the show till way later than most kids. But the temper? The arguing like a divorce lawyer with a huge chunk of a billion dollar estate at stake? The feet stomping, door slamming, arrggghhh yelling drama? Oh yeah. Don't need a full case of the hormones to get a little overly accentuated drunk. It isn't mean. It is frustration and she hasn't developed the maturity to recognize the reactions as biological so she just HATES EVERYTHING for short stretches at a time. With gusto.
One of the advantages of being female, especially a closely genetically linked one, is that I've been there. Culture and society issues are much different but the feelings have not changed. My circumstances involved more complicated parental communication issues so I actually think that a lot of times the drama was exacerbated with a legitimate base for frustration. It wasn't just me kicking up the emotions. There was helplessness and rage against everything that were making all of the emotions dance ten times faster. I remember this and may be able to disengage from the girl drama from the actual issues a little easier then the men folks who haven't been there before. And when I find the my sanity slipping, I can call the other females to remind me that I was once the cause of this frustration for my parents. Remember, remember, remember to be there when she comes home from school distressed over, in our eyes, nothing and hug her like it really is something anyway, looking for the real reasons that may be in there too even if they aren't the ones that are obvious.
I am hoping that I will be able to produce calm or at least navigate the rapids when we hit them intelligently with empathy. I suspect it will be like living with a sporadic mental patient, especially with my genetic code bouncing around in there. We are living in a less innocent time when there is also easier acceptance for sexual activity at an early age in schools, youtube videos on how to cut yourself, constant reminders of what you don't have and the always universal mean girls judging the drum that your are beating to except they have more access to different ways to make you feel bad. I've watched puberty ridden people close to me run away from home, go into rehab, abuse themselves with eating disorders and cutting, and die because they just couldn't handle it. It is a scary scary world to have a girl child growing into a new vulnerable body. But I know it will have wonderful moments too. And at least I know, to her, her moment of insanity is real and rational although it looks nuts from the outside.
There is a good child with a kind heart born with wonderful creative gifts. I will hold her hands to comfort her and remind her of this. Whether she likes it or not.
Welcome to the early stages of puberty. Or, as I like to remember it, the winds shifting before the storm. Lots of unwarranted tears, overreacting and zits. We haven't gotten to the menses part of the show. Honestly, that's the part that bothers me the least. It's pretty cut and dry. "Here, put this here thing in this place and make sure you time it so there isn't a mess." I will refrain from saying things like, "Today you are a woman," because a) its creepy and b) its not true. She would still be a kid who got a period, not a woman. A kid with a 90 pound gorilla of estrogen shoved into a 70 pound body.
I don't think the period part is knocking at the door just yet anyway. Like I was, she is super skinny which tends to deter the onset of early menstruation. I didn't hit that part of the show till way later than most kids. But the temper? The arguing like a divorce lawyer with a huge chunk of a billion dollar estate at stake? The feet stomping, door slamming, arrggghhh yelling drama? Oh yeah. Don't need a full case of the hormones to get a little overly accentuated drunk. It isn't mean. It is frustration and she hasn't developed the maturity to recognize the reactions as biological so she just HATES EVERYTHING for short stretches at a time. With gusto.
One of the advantages of being female, especially a closely genetically linked one, is that I've been there. Culture and society issues are much different but the feelings have not changed. My circumstances involved more complicated parental communication issues so I actually think that a lot of times the drama was exacerbated with a legitimate base for frustration. It wasn't just me kicking up the emotions. There was helplessness and rage against everything that were making all of the emotions dance ten times faster. I remember this and may be able to disengage from the girl drama from the actual issues a little easier then the men folks who haven't been there before. And when I find the my sanity slipping, I can call the other females to remind me that I was once the cause of this frustration for my parents. Remember, remember, remember to be there when she comes home from school distressed over, in our eyes, nothing and hug her like it really is something anyway, looking for the real reasons that may be in there too even if they aren't the ones that are obvious.
I am hoping that I will be able to produce calm or at least navigate the rapids when we hit them intelligently with empathy. I suspect it will be like living with a sporadic mental patient, especially with my genetic code bouncing around in there. We are living in a less innocent time when there is also easier acceptance for sexual activity at an early age in schools, youtube videos on how to cut yourself, constant reminders of what you don't have and the always universal mean girls judging the drum that your are beating to except they have more access to different ways to make you feel bad. I've watched puberty ridden people close to me run away from home, go into rehab, abuse themselves with eating disorders and cutting, and die because they just couldn't handle it. It is a scary scary world to have a girl child growing into a new vulnerable body. But I know it will have wonderful moments too. And at least I know, to her, her moment of insanity is real and rational although it looks nuts from the outside.
There is a good child with a kind heart born with wonderful creative gifts. I will hold her hands to comfort her and remind her of this. Whether she likes it or not.
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