Warning: Deafness caused by Tweens and Indoor Pools

My daughter turned 12 on January 12, 2010. This birthday is important for her because it is the last year before her teens. It is important to me because my little girl is not so little anymore.

Twelve is the last year as a young child. She is moving into a year of changes: body, hormones, boys, new friendships, and emotional separation from me. Her mind will be growing along with her body. She will begin to question who she is. She is encountering school dances, school sponsored sports, and subject matter that her I have sheltered her from so far. And there is nothing I can do stop this train.

I remember my preteen years as emotional and tumultuous. I cried more during those years than I have in the last ten. I comprehend the complexity and patience that my mom exhibited thirty years ago. Now, I begin my own path of practicing restraint, both emotionally and mentally in my own right.

My past Friday began at 3:30 pm with the transportation of eight 12-year-old girls to the Fairfield Inn on Hwy 280 for an overnight party and an indoor pool. I pressured my friend, Renata, to accompany me for support. The 20-minute car ride awakened my consciousness to the language and content of 12-year-old girls. Boys, other girls, dances, coolness, cell phones, texting and music were updated to my untrendy brain. I acknowledged and appreciated the openness of the girl’s conversation and only one time was there an uncomfortable swap of topic. Otherwise, their innocence came through with the amount of social information I was permitted to overhear.

I found out who was going out with whom (meaning to like but not going anywhere), who liked a girl but she didn’t like him, and the boy that the entire car agreed was nice but was somewhat feminine. I listened about the mean girl who was going out with the nice boy (why they wondered) and where they bought their dresses for the upcoming winter dance. My daughter sat in the front seat, interacting openly with her friends with only the occasional glance of nervousness my way.

We arrived safely at the hotel, checked into our two adjoining rooms and started a night of squealing, swimming, laughter, food inhalation and texting. My boundary level of auditory input was reached early in the game. I cannot fully describe the misery of sitting in a heated indoor pool area, with sounds reverberating of the walls, a noise decibel that possibly jumbled my neuron paths. Renata and I took turns having quiet time alone in the room upstairs.

The rest of the evening was a continuation of all the above. As the night went on, I found the girls to be funny, charming and interesting in each of their own way. I loved that the girls were comfortable in their own skins. There were small moments of wanting to fit in but the acceptance from the group sent the individual back to her childlike behavior. I found myself transfixed listening to the girls and happy that my daughter and her friends were having such a good time.

I understand that these times of peeking into her interactions with peers will be ending. But, I cherish the moment and again, feel thankful for my daughter and sad that she is growing up. She may remember her 12th birthday as the cool indoor pool and overnight but I will always cherish it as a window of opportunity to spend time with her and her friends. I know from my own relationship with my mother at this age that these moments will cease for a while and I will be out of the loop on who she is. But, I also know that our friendship will pick up again once she is through certain developmental stages and that our bond between mother and daughter will be solid.

Head of What Household?

A friend posted on her blog her irritation with having to check the “divorced” instead of “single” on her tax form. Her indignation at having to label herself is apparent and I have to agree with her.

Not that I think this but some feel that having to proclaim yourself as divorced is like admitting that you failed at something. Why bring up the negative event in your life that you are trying makes you feel bad? I know that these labels are helpful for national census, tax bracket categories, etc… But really, why do we have to define ourselves on a national comparison.

This leads to one of my biggest pet peeves in the history of my adulthood. I had no problem checking the “married” box at age 23 and on but what made my hair stand on end was the “Head of the Household” box that goes along with it. I could ramble for hours about the dominance of male status especially once married but I will stick to this particular annoyance. I guess because my husband makes more money than I make and always will. Unless by chance I publish a New York Times best seller or win the Georgia Lottery, he will have the privilege of being the Head of the Household.

But along with this label comes the social expectation that he is the decision maker, the holder of the accounts, the big cheese who permits and denies my decisions and actions. I don’t think so. One of my favorite (or not so favorite) solicitation calls came from a male who wanted to speak with the Head of the Household. I remained silent for a good 10-15 seconds in shock and then asked what did he mean? He then stated that he needed to speak to my husband. I asked him why he would need to speak to my husband. I could tell he was becoming uncomfortable but he made the grave mistake of revealing his impatience and began to talk to me in a condescending voice about how he needed to talk with the person of the home who made the decisions.

Oh really. I stated as politely as I could that I made most of the decisions (not true, we equally partake in this marital action) and that he was speaking to the Head of the Household. He then had the nerve to ask again for my husband. I repeated that he was talking with the Head of the Household. My unwelcome solicitation friend hung on me.

Do companies really believe that when they insult a partner in a household that they are going to get whatever information they are calling for? Not so much, cowboy.

Here's an idea: how about collecting statistical information based on gender, age, salary and location? Hell, I wouldn’t even mind stating what my occupation is, just for the record. But to pigeon hole me and my family into terminology according to age-old labels is insulting and counterproductive. And, it highly pisses me off.

I commented on my friend’s blog and stated that she should have marked “single” and written in “THANK GOD”. I realized early on that I could fight, bitch, scream and grudge against societal labels but the only thing that would change would be me. I now use humor and sarcasm to counteract any compilations of our family’s information. I cross out Head of the Household on forms, hand phone solicitations to my youngest child (he does run our household) or hang up. I am, of course, the Head of the Household on those decisions.

Land locked

So far, my blog is nonexistent. I thought I would use this as a daily exercise in writing. Mainly, I think about what I'm going to blog and then are stressed out in my attempt to begin writing it. Ah... the joys of writing.

I'm reading The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin. She makes resolutions to be happy and breaks her list in a 12-month period. So, for one of my new resolutions, I will aim to write at least once a week on my blog. I want to reduce this ridiculous anxiety about whether what I write will be good, if I will make a mistake, or if I will regret what I post. My new motto will be today is today, yesterday is no more.