It's Just Not Funny Anymore

I sometimes have to wonder...where is that mild-mannered, wonderfully happy, even tempered little girl?

She is lost to me.

I know it is partly my fault. In the quest to raise a woman who has control of her own life, who is confident in her own skin, who can be honest with herself and accept the truth for what it is, I have created...her.

And what is wrong with her? Hmm. Most of time, nothing. Most of the time, she is perfect. Cha is exactly who I wanted her to be. She is a great 11-year-old. She is funny and sarcastic, and she doesn't like to take shit from anyone. I respect that. In fact, I have cultivated that.

But sometimes, when she can't express herself and when I don't have the patience for her need to be heard, it gets old. And I get done. And we both need Dad to intervene, because frankly, I don't like to take shit from anyone, either, and I certainly don't want to take it from my 11 year-old.

We are at an impasse, many nights. After homework, and training, and long, hot days in the middle of fall, we have a tendency to cross boundaries, that even mothers and daughters should have between them.

Tonight, it was simply this: she didn't move fast enough for me, and she had an excuse for everything. (I hate excuses. At the end of the day, no matter what the reason for missing something, or for doing badly at whatever, or for losing this, or being late for that - it makes no difference, because any reason you have is just an EXCUSE).

We drove home from her training session in silence. I could feel her clam up. I had no sympathy. I went into my office and came out 20 minutes later to find her on the couch, just sitting there, feeling sorry for herself. I could do nothing but sigh, and wait for Daddy to come make things better because the truth is, it is beyond me to make things better.

There was nothing I could do but wait to hear the garage door open and Clint to come home, and deal with her, because I was incapable of saying the right thing.

After a hug and a kiss, and a bit of hearing her out, she was better. And when the night wound down, and dinner was over, and he had sent her up to bed, I turned to him and said, defensively: I am not that mom who will just hug her. I know she needs that, but I can't. You know me, that's not something I can do. I need you to be the buffer.

He looked at me, put something in the fridge, smiled, and said: You know what I think? I deal with her better...because I have had 18 years experience dealing with you. You two are the same.

He didn't say it as an accusation, just a quiet fact.

Oh, dear God. I have created a monster!