Pre-teen Crap Shoot

My daughter S is at the stage where her life is full of funny anecdotes. Every day with her offers another good story to share and enjoy. My older daughter, E, however, is moving out of that stage into new and mildly unpleasant territory. E currently fluctuates between four moods: apathy, indifference, irritation, and indignation. Notice most of these begin with “i.” That’s because it is all about her, all the time.

For example, if we have no plans for a Saturday afternoon, I might engage E in a conversation about what to do. It goes a little something like this:

Me: What would you like to do after lunch?
E: I don’t care.
Me: You sure? Would you like to play outside?
E: Nah, too tired.
Me: Maybe a nap?
E: Only babies and old people take naps.
Me: Your aunt LM loves to nap.
E rolls eyes.
Me: How about we watch a movie on the big screen TV?
S, chiming in: Yeah, let’s watch…

Now, it doesn’t matter what S suggests. E will never ever agree to something if it was S's idea. That includes life saving measures like oxygen and emergency surgery.

E: She didn’t ask you, she asked me. And I don’t want to watch that.
Me: Well, how about…
E: I’ll just go to my room if you watch that.
Me: Well, what do you want to watch? Make a suggestion.
E, raising her voice: Why can’t we ever do what I want to do? All I wanted was to go to the mall! (stomps out of room.)
Me: What just happened here?
S: I don’t know. Can I still watch a movie?

It’s the same thing if we go out to dinner. Most nights, I do the cooking, and I plan for a week’s worth of dinners at a time when I grocery shop. Everyone can ask me any day of the week’s meal, and I have that information ready to share. I am a walking Family Circle magazine. But on those once a week nights that I don’t plan to cook, because even servants have a day off once a week, I share the decision making with the whole family. Did I mention we are an indecisive bunch? With E, though, the discussion of where to eat always ends up the same way, like this:

Me: Where would you like to go to dinner?
E: I don’t care.
Me: Do you want Mexican or Chinese?
E: I’m not that hungry. Just tired.
Me: That’s because you need to eat. Maybe a cafeteria?
E: Only babies and old people like to eat at cafeterias.
Me: Your aunt LM loves to go. They have great fried chicken and macaroni and cheese.
E rolls eyes.
Me: I’m open to ideas. Where would you like to go?
S: I know, let’s get pizza!
Did I already tell you that S is always wrong?
E: She didn’t ask you, she asked me. And I don’t want to eat that.
Me: Actually, I wanted a little input from everyone. But if you don’t want any of those, than you make a suggestion. What do you want?
E, raising her voice: Why can’t we ever do what I want to do? All I wanted was some soup from Panera! (stomps out of room.)
Me: What just happened here?
S: I don’t know. Can we still get a pizza?

The worst, however, is picking out clothes. When she was little, I would select her outfits for her and lay them out the night before, so we wouldn’t have to have a giant clothing debate before breakfast. She wants to pick out her own clothes now, which is great. It’s one less thing I have to do. And my rules for appropriate attire are pretty simple. It needs to be clean and not violate any school rules or societal norms. Apparently, however, those guidelines are too confusing for her. I kid you not; it takes her a good twenty minutes to pick out a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. I find that simultaneously irritating and amusing, because she only wants to wear the same three t-shirts and the same damn pair of jeans. If I want to see her in something different, I deliberately stop doing laundry for a couple of days.

And she’s weird about her clothes too. If it’s over eighty degrees, she wants a long sleeved hoodie and jeans. If it’s cooler than sixty, she puts on khaki shorts and a short sleeved Aeropostale shirt. She loves Aeropostale t-shirts. I don’t even know how to say Aeropostale.

I know it sounds like E is not much fun to be around right now, but the truth is, she is still the caring and loving daughter I know, just wrapped up in a craggy layer of pre-teen angst. Why, just yesterday, I was feeling poorly because, well, because I was having menstrual cramps that could kill a monkey. E felt badly for me. She got me the heating pad and made her own breakfast so I could sit and rest. “It’s not so bad, Mom,” she comforted me. “I read in my body book that most women stop getting their periods when they are fifty. So you don’t have that much longer to go.”

See? When she takes a break from being moody and self-centered, she is actually quite lovely. I don’t know which version of her I am enjoying more. The best part is that you never know which one you will be treated to, so you have to be up for anything. This age must be called “tweens” because you are torn between wanting to laugh at them or smack them. The only definite thing is that whatever choice you do make, you are guaranteed to be wrong.