that not so fresh… wait. what? No, it’s not a remake of the Mother Daughter team having The Freshness Talk while Running through the Fields Of Flowers and Holding Hands… not really, anyway. What I meant to say was, even after two teenagers and all their friends to practice on, when you look at your youngest at just 9 years old… do you get that feeling that your DOOMED?
This morning, I did.
Now I’ve dealt with grumpy teenagers. I’ve forced them up and out to work and school. I’ve watched them sleep for 20 hours a day and declare themselves EXHAUSTED. I’ve fought with them to clean their rooms, do the dishes, to wash their clothes, teeth, hair and OMG FEET. I’ve done all that times TWO, yet I never once felt the way I did this morning. The sense of impending doom was SO BAD it caused Nana [http://web.archive.org/web/20100612040353/http://knittingpassion.com/] to call and ask what I’d done to that poor put upon child who showed up at her door for breakfast with tears in red-rimmed eyes and a single cuss word on her lips when asked what was wrong: “MOM!”
At 9 years old and the baby of the family, the Pup is outspoken, sassy, smart-assed, loud, and must always be the center of attention. She adores her older siblings, who would rather she would just go away until she is older, though they love her too. You know how it goes. There’s a 7 year age difference between her and the Boy, and 5 years between the sisters.
But this morning? It was hormone hall up in here, years early.
It started with the discovery that “SOMEONE didn’t pull the belt out of my jeans before they WASHED them and now its GONE and I can’t FIND it!” That someone, of course, was her. I gently suggested that she use a different belt, and you would have though I gently suggested she lay her head in my lap and let me poke at her eyes with sharp sticks. “IT WON’T LOOK RIGHT!” she wailed, and I could do nothing but calmly suggest she get the hell dressed already in SOMETHING because OMG CHILD your ride is almost here.
Once her pants were on, with the proper belt, she was still sitting there, staring blankly ahead, with only one sock on. I pointed the obvious out “Get another sock, your boots, your coat, your ride will be here any second.” only to have her wail back at me, “I CAN’T FIND ONE!”
Ok then – so maybe, maybe she would like to quit staring off blankly and oh, I don’t know, LOOK for one? When I suggested such, she went into full panic mode, as I handed her another sock, and sent her to put on her boots. Boots she had set aside so she could find them easily this morning, since all the other shoes were put in the cubbies last night. Boots that were RIGHT BEHIND HER as she emptied the cubbies on by one, flinging shoes everywhere in her attempt to uncover her boots, that were, again, RIGHT BEHIND HER.
I pointed out the boots, shoved the tossed shoes back in the cubby, while telling Papa on the phone she was on her way. But it was not to be finished so easily! Oh NO. Because where… was her coat?
“Here,” I said, helpfully. “Wear this one. It fits, and unlike the other, the zipper won’t keep breaking.” It was a good solution, I thought, as it was pink, and black, and fit, and zipped, and worked. I was wrong.
“I’ll be so EMBARRASSED!” she wailed. Uh. Ok. I had to ask her… why? “Because it’s UGLY and I HATE IT and I can’t BELIEVE you MOM!”
That’s the last I heard as she walked out, slammed the door, and took her tortured soul down to Nana’s house. There, Nana tried to hug her, and nothing would soften the taught frame and anguished being that was my youngest child. Nana did well not to laugh. Out loud, anyway.
Yup, in the retelling of the tale – there’s that feeling again.
So, anyone want a early hormonal 9 year old? I’ll sell her cheap…
As I was writing this:
Pup: Whatcha doin?
Me: Selling you on the internets.
Pup: YAY! Sell me to someone nice, who gives me ice cream when I’m bad!
Me: Your request is duly noted. Now shoo.