Mother of the Year

I just had a nasty little fight with my teenaged daughter. It was pretty ugly, ugly enough for my other daughter to ask us to stop. Now we are on different floors in the house. If I had an outbuilding to go to, or a job, or some errands, any excuse to leave the house, I would. But it’s cold and raining, much like the feeling I have in my heart, and I have nowhere to go and dinner to make. So I am staying here, seething.

The fight started as many do, over nothing. My younger daughter has a sore throat and didn’t want to go for dance class, opting instead to stay home and rest. My teenager likes it when we leave the house for dance class, as she gets to be alone for a few hours in the house, doing god knows what. Normally after school when we are all home, she hibernates in her bedroom with the iPad, emerging only for more snacks or the eventual call to join us for dinner. It’s not like she would even know we were here.

But no, she had to cop attitude about us being at home during her precious alone time.  She complained about us not leaving. She rudely demanded the upstairs bonus room in which to pretend we didn’t exist, and followed her demand with a couple of eat-shit glares and some heavy sighing. So I got pissed at her.  

The more appropriate response would have been to ignore the glares and the sighs, which is what I would normally do. After all, she is a teenager, and they are prone to eye rolling and sighing and selfish demands. Today, however, I just got irritated. Her sister didn’t feel well, and as usual, all the teen could think about was herself. I also couldn’t get past the alone time thing. I haven’t had alone time in fourteen years. Fuck her alone time.

I should have been the adult. I should have either let it go or made a mature comment about being understanding and sharing and accommodating other’s needs, but instead, I played it like a bratty adolescent, which I figured would be a language she could understand.  I met her on her level, and it wasn’t pretty.

I started by staying in the car long enough to give her a head start upstairs so I could just avoid her altogether. She knew what I was doing, however, and she waited in the kitchen for me to enter so we could continue what began in the car.

I set my things on the counter and watched as she made herself a cup of hot cocoa with four giant marshmallows. This is a child who demands a healthy smoothie for breakfast and a low carb lunch every day because she wants to continue to fit into her skinny jeans rather than maybe exercising or something. While she snuck a chocolate and peppermint cookie out of the pantry, I commented that I was through buying special foods for her if she insisted on eating crap every afternoon. I know, real mature. I was fully aware I wasn’t fighting fairly, but I didn’t care. Once I started, I couldn’t stop.

She whipped out the ultimate comeback: yes ma’am. She only ma’am’s me when she is angry because she knows it drives me nuts. I cleaned up the mess she made making her cocoa and called her a princess, adding she treated me like a servant who had to clean up after Her Majesty. She said if I didn’t act like a servant, she wouldn’t treat me like one. So I told her she wasn’t just being a spoiled little princess, she was acting like a bitch. She scowled at me with eye daggers.

She countered with my need to act like an adult, that I was a grown woman and she was just a fourteen year old child, that it was offensive that I would call her an expletive. I told her I was offended by how she treated the rest of us. Also, that if there was another word for how she was acting that was more accurate than bitch, I would have used it.

After exchanging more eat shit glares, she ate the last apple muffin, getting crumbs all over the floor before storming off for the upper floor.

Now she is indeed holed up in her room, her electric keyboard on the highest volume as she angrily bangs out Lana Del Ray songs and Ben Folds Five’s “Brick,” because she knows how much I hate both. It works since her bedroom is right above my office. My other daughter is dutifully working on a homework assignment that isn’t due for another month, scared to talk to either one of us.

I would not describe this as a shining moment in parenting.

I normally do the right thing when it comes to my girls, especially compared to what I endured as a child, including my teenage years. I didn’t call her a bitch. I told her she was acting like one. It doesn’t matter, though, because in her mind I did, and that is how she will remember this argument for the next twenty or more years. It isn’t so much a defining moment as it is a scarring one, and I am the one doing the scarring. Not good. No gold star for today.

The easiest way to fix this is to go upstairs and apologize. Of course, I am not ready to do that yet. Instead, I will continue to stew in my own passive aggressive angry juices, justified in blowing up at her because I do it so rarely, because she kind of deserved it, both the words and a little reminder that I am human too and want to be treated with respect. Except that if I act like a baby, do I deserve it?

Yep, today I suck at parent. I better go say I’m sorry, and while I’m at it, maybe drop a dollar or two in the therapy jar. It’s like a swear jar, only for the no doubt countless hours of counseling that she will require as an adult to undo the trauma I caused her during her formative years. I sure wish my mother had a therapy jar for me. Maybe I wouldn’t need one today for my own kids.

Did I just blame my mother? I believe so. I knew somehow this was all her fault.

Gelt Guilt

You think shopping for Christmas is a pain the ass? Try finding Hanukkah stuff in a southern town. I have spent more than eight nights looking for small gifts worthy of the festival of lights, and let me tell, it’s slim pickings here in the Bible Belt. I didn’t bother looking at Wal-Mart, because, really, that’s just a step above Hobby Lobby.  But I’ve covered Target, Party City, my local Publix, and nothing. All anyone stocks is menorahs and blue and silver garland. How many menorahs does Target think we need?

In my house, the fun never stops during the holidays because we have one of those so-called interfaith families. My husband abhors organized religion but loves Santa and decorations and presents presents PRESENTS!! So we do both holidays.  Not only do I have to capture the motherfucking magic of Christmas, but I have to honor those hard fighting Maccabees by finding small ticket items that can be doled out over eight nights. Consider yourself lucky that Christmas is but one day a year.

My family refers to Hanukkah as the socks and underwear holiday. We save the good stuff for Christmas morning, and I never objected because the only thing I remember ever getting for Hanukkah when I was a kid were those knitted slipper socks with the pom poms on top. It was the only thing my grandmother knew how to knit, and she made a new pair for each of us every year, whether we needed them or not. She must have bought a lifetime supply of the ugliest, cheapest yarn 1968 had to offer, so all the slipper socks were in stomach-churning   color combinations like avocado green and corn yellow or rusty orange and camel beige.

Hanukkah presents were easier to find for my kids when they were little because they were happy with any small thing, a bag of chocolate coins or a new wooden dreidel. Hell, that’s two nights covered right there. I could always find a paint your own dreidel kit or foam menorah craft to make my preschoolers happy. My daughters are both in double digits now, however, and they need another dreidel like I needed new slipper socks.  They have fancy dreidels and laser light dreidels and dreidels that play music (the ubiquitous “I Have a Little Dreidel”) and even a stuffed dreidel made for infants.

They also have plenty of jewelry. We have chai's (this has nothing to do with tea) and Stars of David and evil eyes, bracelets and earrings and necklaces, enough to wear a different one for each night of Hanukkah. The only thing that would further identify them as Jewish would be a yellow star sewn on their clothing, but I don’t think we are quite there yet in America. Seriously, how what do Jewish parents with sons do? They don't really care about Jewish star earrings last I heard.

Today, I went in a party store and found a small Hanukkah section hidden amongst the paper plates. Much to my surprise, they had cheap plastic headbands with blue glitter dreidels perched atop springs; I think their technical name is "deely boppers." These headbands were a find. I haven’t seen them on any crap party or Jewish themed website for the past ten years. When I checked out with my boppers, I asked the cashier if that section was the extent of their Hanukkah goods, and she nodded yes. The two women behind me in line gave me a knowing look, then a fake sympathetic smile, the kind you give someone you think about letting out in traffic but then drive by anyway since the coast is not clear in the other lane, leaving them to wait for another nice person. Sorry, the look said. Sorry you’re Jewish.

So far, I’ve got the deely boppers, a couple of dreidels, menorah sunglasses, and a Hanukkah themed Mad Libs book. Four nights down. I figure I will fill in the rest with lip gloss and nail polish and other worthless crap that young teenaged girls enjoy. I contemplated Thanksgivukkah shirts, since this is the last time for 70,000 years that the first night of Hanukkah falls on Thanksgiving, but really, it's not like they will have an occasion to wear them again. 

I know it’s not about the gifts. It’s about the time spent together, making memories, sharing experiences….blah blah blah. It’s totally about the gifts. If Hanukkah didn’t have eight nights of gifts and an unfortunate proximity to Christmas, it would go the way of other lesser Jewish holidays, those we cannot pronounce and therefore forget altogether. Ever hear of Shavuot? Exactly.

I get that Christmas is a big deal, both religiously and commercially, but just once, I would love to see more than one end cap that’s devoted to Hanukkah, when the rest of the store has its halls decked in red and green.  Can you imagine going into a store to find the whole place shiny with silver and blue, klezmer music blasting over the intercom, the greasy smell of potato latkes wafting in the air? Glade and Febreze don't come in jelly donut smell, ever.

And how about a t-shirt or some dreidel socks or underwear or pajamas or something new instead of yet another box of candles and some paper plates?  Besides, I always buy my paper plates on sale after Hanukkah, because, let’s face it, who doesn’t love a bargain? 

I wonder what would happen if I just didn't get eight gifts, or, rather, sixteen, because there are two of them. We lose interest by the fifth night anyway. Wax drips all over the counter, a plastic dreidel or two forgotten on the floor, the stench of old grease in the air. I don't even like jelly donuts.

Why are Jewish holidays so long? Nobody has the attention span for an eight day holiday anymore. We don't even take vacations for that long.  We rewrite history all the time. Why not change that ancient miracle so I don't have to shop for as many gifts? Then we'd have a reason to buy a new menorah, with room for maybe just four or five candles. 

After we do that, maybe we can work on one spelling of Hanukkah. Enough with all the K's and C's and H's.