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How to talk like a teenager long before your time
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Ugh. Don't talk to me.
I mean no disrespect, but would somebody invent the Stepford child already? You know, the kind that listens when parents talk, that does as she’s told, that doesn’t feign boredom when exciting things are about to happen? That says ‘thank you’ and ‘please’ and ‘mom, I love you so much it hurts’ whenever the situation calls for it?
I recently put my children in the car to go to the local Yom Ha’atzmaut party. Expecting some excitement, I asked them if they were ready to go. While my son, as expected, hopped up and down in his seat, my daughter’s response was: “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
Come again?
“Would you rather stay home?” I threatened, starting to pull the car keys out, and she quickly fixed her attitude. “No, no, I want to go!”
So we went. Once there, she didn’t seem very interested in the art projects, the live music, the friends that were there, or anything, really. Nagging for food, she was interested in that. What was going on? Had my excitable, passionate, and overly enthusiastic-with-flair-for-drama seven year old suddenly turned into a sulky teenager? It wasn't the first time, either; I've heard her say things like "sure" and "I don't care" a little too often in recent weeks. I've also caught her mumbling under her breath and rolling her eyes.
My daughter and I don’t always see eye-to-eye when it comes to who should listen to whom. We’re both stubborn, we both have a temper, and we are both very, very fond of slamming doors. I am used to her dynamite nature, I often provide the spark that sets her off (and vice versa); although it creates drama overload, I like my emotions served hot. She may not always be the easiest child, but she’s exactly like me, and I always know what she is thinking. After all, it’s not very hard to guess how a child feels when she’s standing at the top of the stairs yelling: “you’re a horrible person and I hate you for ever and ever and always.” Especially when that same child comes up to you half an hour later to hug you and tell you how sorry she is.
After having spent half an hour at the party getting on each other’s nerves, I tell her she can go outside with her friends and visit the jumpy castle. “Okay,” she says, looking disinterested, and, well, bored. When I see her again an hour later, her cheeks are red, her hair is sweaty, and she has a big smile on her face. Thank god, the seven-year-old is back, and the teenager has left.
I know the transition from happy child to morose teen doesn’t happen overnight, but I wasn’t expecting to see glimmers of it already. She’s only seven, for goodness’ sake. I wonder what’s in store for the near future: will she actually morph into a child that doesn’t communicate? And how long will that last? Exactly how quiet will it be around here?
As soon as we get home, my son grabs a pen to scratch the coffee table with. When I tell him no, he tells me “You are ruining my life.” Then, he stalks upstairs and slams his bedroom door a few times. Ah, that’s right: I have a back-up drama queen. Hopefully, by the time he catches the ‘whatever’-bug, she’s moved on.
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