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"I'm going to get my tongue pierced, I don't care what you say," announces the stranger who has been occupying a room in my house since she turned thirteen. "Ashley got hers done and her mom is so cool about it, she even drove her in."
I know better than to argue with teenage defiance; I remember too well how logical it sounded to me when I used it to convince my mom to let me have a perm because everyone else was getting one. Your hair is too thick for a perm, trust me, you'll regret it, she said. She endured my sulking for almost a week before giving in. I had it permed, and it looked horrible. I was so angry with her afterwards: Why did you let me do it if you knew it would look like this?
"Ashley's mom has a pierced nipple," says my daughter.
"Nice."
"They shop together, they're like, friends. And they're the same size. They can wear the same clothes." Her snotty eyes decimate dowdy me in faded lavender sweat pants and a white t-shirt that shows the lines of my sloppy too-small bra.
"Good for them."
"I wish you were like Ashley's mom. You don't even try! Ever since Daddy left, all you do is-"
"That's enough," I say.
"He'd probably still be here if you took better care of yourself."
"Who are you mad at, me or him?"
"You!"
"Okay."
"Because you won't let me get my tongue pierced. That's like, so unfair."
"It feels unfair to you now, and I'm sorry about that. But the answer is still no."
She scowls, ugly; too young to realize that she has to learn boundaries, and the only way for us to define them is by her acting out. I won't personalize this. We are on an exquisite journey through a coming of age process that will enrich us both. Blah blah blah. Were the stack of books on my night stand written during the teenage years, or in retrospect, after the kids had grown up? What I want to say to my bratty progeny is, Go! Get your tongue pierced, I hope it gets infected and you have to have it removed.
"You suck," she says.
"I'm sorry," I say again. She stomps up the stairs. Should I follow her and try to resolve this before her resentment builds? Or let her have some space in order to explore her feelings?
I bring our dishes to the sink and run hot water. Doing the dishes is one of her chores. Keeping her room neat, feeding the fish, and putting her dirty clothes in the laundry basket, those are the others. Kids have to work for their allowance, or else they won't learn responsibility and the value of money.
When I finish doing the dishes I call up the stairs that I am going to visit my mother. I don't get a response so I say in a louder voice, "Do you hear me?"
"Yes! Quit shouting all the time!"
"Why don't you answer?"
"I said o-kaaaaaay! God! It's like you're deaf now, too!"
"She hates me," I tell my mother. "She never smiles. When will this get easier? Today she wants her tongue pierced. Tomorrow it'll be birth control pills. And a car. And even if I give her everything she wants, she'll still hate me."
I start to cry. I always do when I'm at the cemetery. Crouching, I brush some grass cuttings off my mother's plaque and think about the time she wouldn't let me go to the beach with my friends until I cleaned my room. I said I'd do it as soon as I got home, and she reminded me that I had said that last weekend and the weekend before and the weekend before. I hate you! I screamed. She took in a quick surprised breath; then her lips went tight and she turned away to hide her hurt. I figured she'd call my dad at work and tell him, but when he got home that evening all he did was kiss my head and ask what was for dinner. How did she do it? Where did she find the grace to forgive me over and over? Maybe I should read my parenting books again. But as I stand, a sudden sweet spring afternoon breeze rustles the trees and I see the answer is written on her plaque: Loving Mother.
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