Bah, Humbug

I was an eleven year old girl once. I don’t remember it being as tough as this. Mind you, I am not an eleven year old girl again. I am a forty two year old girl with an eleven year old girl, my daughter E, who manages to bring a level of drama to my life that didn’t exist even a month ago. I have to admit, I am not enjoying it. It’s a bad version of time travel, where you don't actually go back and relive the good ole days, you only get to watch them like Ebenezer Scrooge. E began sixth grade last week, and if that weren’t bad enough, she is creating parenting challenges on an almost daily basis.

Middle school just started, and it is to elementary school what a federal prison is to a halfway house. Every day, I am amazed by the rules and rigidity of all of her teachers and the administration. I admit, I did go to private school for sixth and seventh grade, but that was to avoid the three hour round trip bus commute in my hometown, not to keep me in a cocoon. I have no doubt that tweens are a bunch of troublemakers, as I am learning every day, but they aren’t criminals. Yet. What follows are just a taste of some of my favorite new rules.

• No water bottles. What is this, a public education or the TSA? I don’t my daughter tonguing the same water fountain as eight hundred other mouth breathers. Besides, who knows how much lead is leaking into that drinking water? I can assure you, she is not bringing a Camelbak filled with vodka to get her through the day. Water, it’s the stuff of life. Kids need it, way more than they do the high fructose corn syrup juice and chocolate milk you are selling in that cafeteria.

• No backpacks in the halls. Seriously? What makes backpacks contraband? I remember a few years ago when schools had a see-through backpack policy. It seemed the only people who had access to clear backpacks were New York City club kids, but whatever, suddenly they were a requirement in the suburbs, and the idea of a right to privacy between the ages of eleven and thirteen was heresy. Now, the kids can take a backpack on the bus or in Mommy and Daddy’s car, but it better be locked up the minute you walk through those doors. Next thing you know, they are going to check the lunchboxes for files. As if a pencil could not be used a weapon. You could out an eye out with one of those things.

• Bathroom breaks only during class changes. Okay, here’s a good one. How are tweenage girls supposed to figure out how to use a tampon if they only have three minutes between classes? My eleven year old can’t pee, flush, zip, and wash her hands in three minutes. I know, because I have timed her. I can only imagine the horror of dealing with feminine hygiene for the first time when you only have three minutes to plug up your manhole. And that doesn’t even count the time it takes to walk from one classroom to another, or the part where you have to work up the nerve to actually use the school bathroom.

We haven’t even gotten to the part about going to school in the morning too early or the fun of dismissal in the afternoon or the horrors of the dress code. It isn’t a set of striped pajamas and ankle shackles, but it might as well be. For some reason, my daughter is petrified of wearing shorts, and it has something to do with showing skin. I don’t know if knees have been banned, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

Yes, I do understand that we have adjusting to do, and until that occurs, my daughter is going to find herself feeling more than a little anxious. She is overwhelmed by the amount of homework, the fact that all she wants to do is sleep, that lunch is at ten thirty, that she doesn’t understand how to operate a combination lock, that she finds eighth grade boys cuter than sixth grade boys. Wait, that one overwhelms me. So why would she go out of her way to get into trouble?

Yesterday, I sat next to her on the couch while she read her science homework. I noticed what looked like freckles under her eyes, ones that I didn’t remember. They were very small and almost black, as if she had drawn them on with a fine point pen. I looked at her eyelashes, and I realized what caused those black dots. She had on mascara. If the under-eye spots didn’t give it away, the clumps on her lashes did. They were the clumps of a mascara novice. Did I mention she is not allowed to wear make-up until she is in seventh grade? Here's how it went down:

Me: What’s under your eyes? Are you wearing mascara?
E: No.
Me: Tell me the truth. Do you have on make-up?
E: No.
Me: This is the last chance I am giving you to tell me the truth. Is that mascara on your eyelashes?
E: Yes, ma’am.

She only says ma’am when she is in trouble or mad at me.

Me: Whose mascara is it? Did you put it on at school?
E: It’s yours.

I explained to her the dangers of sharing eye make-up. I reminded her that she is too young to wear it. And then I got mad about the lying. She said she lied because she didn’t want to get in trouble, but the lie is what got her in trouble. I would have told her to not wear make-up, to not use my things, but that lie cost her all computer access for two weeks, except for homework. No iPad, no laptop, no iTunes.

Remember that overwhelmed feeling I had? Well, it got a whole lot worse yesterday. If she will lie about wearing make-up, what else will she lie about? Not only is she breaking my arbitrary rules, but she is also going through my things and using them without permission. What if she finds all her baby teeth I have hidden? What if she finds my collection of sex toys? Hiding them higher in my closet isn’t going to work; she’s taller than me.

Yes, middle school is a series of adjustments. All she has to do is go there, learn, and stay out of trouble. Me? Well, I have to stay one step ahead of her. Which do you think is tougher?