ThinkDebra

I have stopped writing about the “goings on” because my life is moving like an out of control freight train. Recently, there have been battles, wars, arguing, crying and laughing. There has been abuse on my end and abuse on her end too,  sadness and forgiveness; discussions and discourse, rants and raves. All this in the life of a mother and daughter.

My daughter is 10 years old, going on 30. It is hard for me to let go and accept her choices. I see her need to be independent, but she forgot her flute two days in a row. She is making choices, some not so good. She constantly forgets to brush her teeth. I know she wants to fly, but often she requires refueling, just when I least expect it.

Mothers and daughters are a dynamic that often turns into dynamite. Explosive feelings; hurt and deep rooted anger toward your mirror image.  Your extended version of yourself.

The other day, my daughter, after days of telling me, “Oh the math test was SO easy” shows me her test results on the elevator.  There are red marks all over the paper, like a bad rash. She takes it out of her folder as she exclaims, “Mom, most everyone in my class got this mark.” By the time the elevator finds our floor, I hit the roof. Images of myself come to mind. Memories of trying to understand math. My father comes to mind. Math was not MY subject by any means.  My father would come home after a long day of work and patiently sit down at my pretty white and pink secretary desk. After only a few minutes, a brick wall would go up in my mind and arguing would ensue. My father raged. He would then take his hand, sweep the papers off my small desk and scream at me. I too, act in this manner. With baby ducks this is called imprinting.  Blindly following  behaviors we learned by observing.  Behaviors we promised ourselves we would never reenact with our children.

You would think that compassion would play a part in my role as mother, but instead the same rage my father felt wells up in me like a volcano and from the depths of my own remembered pain. I erupt, yelling at my daughter; spewing hateful words. Then of course her low self -esteem emerges and words from her mouth emerge. “I am so stupid.” I am the stupidest kid in my grade.” “I hate math.” Mrs. K should be fired. In that moment, I begin to feel hot as the embers of hate for myself flair into flame and flow through me like molten lava. Why do I respond like Linda Blair in the Exorcist? Why do I stomp on my child’s confidence like high -heeled Loubitian shoes that I twist into my daughter’s gut.  In that moment, I wish someone would cart me off to mother rehab.

Terrible guilt surfaces. Shame ensues. Self-contempt swells over me like a tsunami. Once the flood waters settle, I am left with psychological debris. Float sum and jet sum, the little pieces of myself that I loath, surround me.

My child, the most forgiving person I know, craving my acceptance, starts fresh. The muddy waters recede and settle. Calm reigns once more.

I don’t know what will calm my nerves, what will make me hold my tongue before it starts wagging again like a scared puppy?

My daughter deserves better, than the me, I am now. She deserves someone who is as compassionate as she is. She deserves a happy home, a dictionary of word implants that build her self-esteem. Words that raise her, not words that cut her like a knife.

I need to learn to put down my weapon mouth and breathe.

Yesterday, my ten year old gets off the bus. Her pigtails that were so neatly brushed in the morning now has hairs coming out from all angles. She looks more like Pippi Longstocking. She hops onto the back seat of the car and announces she had the BEST day. We went out for dinner. As we began to  eat our Chicken Kitchen, my husband calls and says, “Did you see the email from CK. CK is the lower school principal. My heart stops and I check my email   that there had been an incident. The email read that my daughter and another little boy ( her boy-friend) were sitting up against the wall waiting for their buses when another boy in their grade began to take pictures of these two with his cell phone. Because there is a no cell phone policy and because it is a declaration of invasion of privacy, my daugther decided to march herself into the principals office and report it.

Guidance and the principal,  praised  my daughter for reporting the incident. My daugther learned at ten how to say NO. This is the beginning of puberty and the very act of someone, no matter how innocent the act might be, turned out to be something distrubing to this ten year old.

As a mother , it became a teaching moment. A moment to say you did the right thing and this is what was going on. I had to explain that the reason TC was taking photos of her and her friend boy is that TC wanted to show his older brother who he liked ( my daughter) and who my daughter liked ( the boy she was standing with).

When my daughter said no she did not want her photo taken, he persisted. This is when she decided to seek professional guidance.

All is forgiven, but this is a lesson well learned. NO means no. Whether is taking photos of someone you like or in years to come something of a more serious nature. My daughter had enough guts to seek help shows me that I, maybe have a little less to worry about when she is older.

The playground is the social gathering of children everywhere. What happens on the playground, stays on the playground.

Yesterday my daugther gets off the bus and announces that on the “playground” A asked N who asked B if he liked me and if he wanted to go out on a date with me.  My daugther is 10 years old and the only date she will have is either to the dentist or the doctor’s. Where do they get this stuff? I asked, “Did he answer” and then of course she was off on a new topic. I realize that out of the mouths of babes come some pretty powerful stuff that I don’t often filter because I get too emotionally involved.

Also my daugther indicated that another little girl in her class wants to have a playdate. Wanting to be socially correct, I handed my daugther the phone after a long day at school and said call L and make a plan. She looked up at me as she was about to take a bite of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich and said, “Mom, I’ll call over the weekend.”

In the bath the other night, she commented, ” You know mom, I am friendly to everyone and I reach out to all my friends and try and get everyone to play with each other, but now I am going to sit back and see if anyone reaches out to me.”

I love this new discourse that is taking place. I just need to know and understand that you don’t have to do anything with discourse, you just have to listen.

DAY 1: My friend and partner picked up my daugther with her daughter and son and his friend from school. As I waited at her door, I heard the gaggle of kids voices laughing and chatting all the way to the door. As they rounded the corner, I saw my daughter with a huge smile across her face ( looking much older than I remember from the morning). She had a great day. When I asked who she played with she indicated B, K, R, M, C and  A.  I was happy to see that she had connected with so many of the girls in the class already. I asked about one her good friends. She gave me a smile and told me that L played with L. She said she was happy that she was not a “cling-on” to her and that she had attached herself to LF.

She also said that Mrs. M is the greatest teacher ever and that she never yells. It must be a relief to know at least someone close to her won’t yell. How is it that once she turned double digets she became a young lady. The angst, the repetition of commands, the constant henpecking has turned into an independent, intelligent and secure child.

After we came home from her playdate, we found ourselves home. Recently, three young boys have moved into our building. Two of the boys invited her down to play. She went without me. I told her to come home at 5:45 p.m. As I was about to call the mother, the elevator door opened and in she walked like she had just arrived from college with her load of laundry. As we were eating dinner, the other little boy called. I loved seeing her flit from apartment to apartment hanging out with all of her new “boy” friends. The simple act of going up and down the elevator and making each trip back in the time desginated showed independence and reponsiblity. She was thriving in this new role. So were the boys.

I have always wished for a house where people would come and go. My husband tends to lean for solitude. This year I will follow my desire and have my daughter’s friends come and go as they please.

My daughter slept like a baby last night. Her mind on her new friends and off the what will be at school.

She is turning into a wonderful child. As least today.

Today my daughter entered 4th grade.  A new right of passage is about to begin. A new slate. A new beginning. There is something about a promise of starting fresh that hopefully will  continue to smell sweet for many months to come. However, the rose might fall off it’s stem once a friends gets in an argument or the friend that she thought would be her friend won’t. It’s the universal truth about being a child – do expectations ever really get met?

I know that the teacher she got was her first choice, I know that everyone in her class is who she preceives to be all her “best friends” even though she has never had a class, a playdate or a sleepover with these “best friends.” I know that she has grown over this summer. From a rocky beginning at sleep away camp to gathering her courage and self-esteem back in a Performing Arts camp. From yelling at me that I need to take my foot off of her neck, to allowing her her space to make her own decisions, her own schedule ( without me overscheduling her), take responsibility and ultimately leave her the fuck alone. At 10 years old I was unconscious. How does my 10 year old have the wisdom beyond her years? How does she succeed in knowing who she is, when at 53rd I still don’t have a clue.

I am hoping with all of my heart that her self-knowing exceeds her school years of uncertainy, mean girls, failures, and boys. I hope that as she navigates her youth in the tween waters that she will have her hand firmly on the wheel and she will look to the horizon.

I want to chronicle this year and therefore will write everyday on her progress. I want to live each day on the sidelines and watch her make her plays. Somedays she will make touchdowns, somedays she will be tackled, and somedays she will score. But I have to remember, she is the one playing, not me.

My husband and I just got back from visiting his brother and sister in law at their new home in East Hampton, New York. They bought their home last September and have spent the fall and winter gutting it and making it their own. While there, I noticed that these two work together like a fine oiled machine. For instance, the dialouge would go like this, “I would like to check out where we are fishing tomorrow so that I know where I am going”, my brother in law would casually mention. As he was speaking these words it was around 11:30 p.m. at night and basically we were driving on pitch black roads. It was so dark that even their Garmen GPS was having a hard time finding the street we were on. After making several u-turns, we headed home. His wife stayed calm and seem to not mind that her husband had spent the last half hour looking for the boat dock.  We didn’t even need to be there until 9:00 a.m. the next morning; giving us plenty of time to find it in the morning since it was 10 minutes from their house.

My husband and I are a different story. My husband is OCD and I am ADD. While I did not mind my brother in law searching for where we were to go the next day, my husband thought it was the most absurd thing in the world. Instantly, he got uptight.

I have always been an adventurer. No trip too exotic for me. The more “third world” the better. My husband’s idea of adventure is do to go to his favorite  deli three times a week. “They know me, he exclaims with pride.” This type of outing bores me to tears.

When I met my husband 22 years ago, I thought some of his behaviors bordered on quirky more than OCD. That’s because I was in love. If I had not had ADD and was bouncing off the wall with excitement of my new found love I would have noticed that he had rituals. It first started with a cup of coffee in the morning with no milk or sugar. Followed was a cup of Go Lean cereal by Kashi; which is basically  rabbit pellets in a box with no milk. This breakfast combination has him sitting on the bowl for over a 1/2 hour every morning. Our second year of marriage, OCD reared its ugly head when he would order 50 pound cakes that were delivered Federal Express from a famous deli in Beverly Hills. He had  it once when we were visiting my parents and like any OCD it became his next addiction. Every month 50 pound cakes would be delivered to our small apartment in New York City.  One time he was leaving on a business trip  and instructed  me that while he was  away could I wrap each cake individually, first with seran wrap and then with tin foil as to avoid freezer burn. I looked stunned. I am so anti-ritual that this type of instruction put me over the edge. To the edge is exactly where I went. The next month I booked a four week  bicycling trip throughVietnam and China. Needless to say, my husband who at that time did not travel below 57th street did not accompany me.

I have come to realize that our problems and  our hurdles are not from arguing with one another because we don’t like each other. We love each other.What we are no longer in love with is our behaviors. Being ADD I see opportunities and I want to grab them. He sees the same thing and thinks its too much to do. What we argue about is our ADD and OCD. They have kept us from enjoying our lives together. It has made our differences too great. It has melded us into arguing individuals who are constantly trying to keep our personality disorders in order, because that is WHO we are. It is what we have become.

When we were at my husband’s brothers house, I realized that he and his wife are both OCD therefore the way that they view things are through the same lens. My husband and I are filtering our reactions or desires through different lenses and when we try and see it the other way, it just gets too cloudy.

Being OCD, he over reacts. Being ADD, I move on. Being OCD, he tries to fix things before they are broken. Being ADD, I don’t even know the word broken. He likes to go to places that are familiar and safe. I work everyday on being out of my comfort zone. He eats the same foods, I never walk down the same street twice. He thinks doing more than one thing a day is like marathon running. Not doing more than one thing a day is like being dead.

Can you reword your life? I don’t know, I am too busy to think about it. Will my husband and I ever be truly happy having these disorders? Or are the disorders what give order to our lives. Without them I would not be who I am and either would my husband. We just need a spell check.

Yesterday, my daughter was invited to a camp reunion for the camp that she attended last summer. The all girls’ camp that she attends is a beautiful camp filled with little girls from all walks of life and different backgrounds.

We arrived at 12:00 to a home or should I say compound that consisted of 12,000 square feet of living space and another 4,000 outside as the property sits on 2 full acres in Coral Gables. The lush grassy area reminding me of being in a villa in Tuscany only the summer swelter reminded me that I was in the through of Florida summer.

There the four little girls came together to reunite and find their places where they had left off the summer before. Instantly you could see that friendships had been formed, yet others had stuck more than others. My daughter is a reserved person. More one on one, than fun on fun. After a 1/2 hour or so the camaraderie picked up its pace and all where frolicking in the Olympic size pool that fit the abundance of pool toys. The girls were even having a great time when it began to pour rain. I heard my daughter glee,” This is so much fun, I have never swam in rain before.” Only a hundred times I replied in my head.

At 1:00 p.m., m daughter wet from the pool made her way across the terrazzo marble floor to declare that she was hungry. Embarrassed, but not all together surprised, I said in front our our hostess, “You will just have to wait.” With that command, the two housekeepers jumped into action and before I could send her back to the pool out came a feast. Home made chicken fingers, freshly made Caesar salad made from scratch with home made croutons and dressing. Store bought carrots, freshly grilled chicken breast that reviled any five star restaurant and watermelon. The meal was topped off with homemade chocolate chip cookies made with brown sugar.

Every item was presented in the perfect dish. The salad was tossed in an Italian ceramic bowl with salad spoons made in France. The chicken fingers were placed in a William Sonoma plastic serving platter and the watermelon perfectly cut were placed evenly around a large silver leaf shaped serving dish.

The adults sat around a huge Brown and Jordan table while the children enjoyed their lunch under an architecturally created gazebo placed strategically at the edge of the pool. There, they were wrapped in lush pool towels they ate their exquisitely prepared lunches and giggled.

At the adult table, talk of our lives ensued. Each parent talking about parenting. We began to describe our lives, where we met our husbands, how long we had all been married, our children and what we hope for ourselves in the future.

My daughter than came through the door again, “Mom I hurt my ankle, can I have some ice?” she asked. Why did it seem that my daughter was the only one we were seeing? Soon all the girls wanted to come into the house and change. All the little wet ducklings marched upstairs dripping water onto the marble staircase. I noticed how one of the housekeepers had a mop and swept the water off the floor as soon as the last girl reached the top of the stairs.

I wondered what that would be like to have someone pick up, straighten up and clean up after every move I made? Twice, my daughter got separated from the group and had to ask the mom if she could intercom them so she would know where to find them in the house. The mom kindly did.

We then took a tour of this magnificent estate. Each room perfectly organized and styled in a way that you felt like you were walking through Architectural Digest.

Soon it was time to leave. We all said our goodbyes and hoped that the girls who would all see themselves again on Sunday would enjoy 71/2 weeks of togetherness. Although I know that no reunion bonds girls only the girls themselves can do that.

The daughter of the house whispered to one of the other little girls if she would like to have a sleep over. After hearing the whisper, my daughter asked, “Can I sleep over?” in which I replied, “You weren’t asked.”

Hugs ensued.

At nine will my daughter remember the day spent with her “camp friends”? Or will she make her own friends at camp? I guess in 7 1/2 weeks we will find out.

For now, Camp Ahoy hopefully will bring another year of joy.

Recently, my nine-year old daugther announced that she was invited to an all boys birthday party. Doubtful, I disregarded it until I received the evite from the boys mother. I remember a month earlier when driving to the bus one morning when she announced, “Mom, I am a tomboy.” Smirking to myself, I thought this was equivlant to stating that she was going to try to smoke pot. Staying cool, I said why? She announced because I am done with the girly girl stuff. OK I said, but remember to be who you are. It is like trying on different clothing. You can keep trying on different looks, but one day you will try on someting and IT will feel just right.  She contorted a confused look on her face, as I tend to ramble when I am making a point. OK she said, mad that she even brouched  the subject.

Recently she has taken to wearing baseball caps backwards, baggy shorts and shirts loose and left out. However her look is somewhere between Cameron Diaz and Suri Cruise so the total tomboy look is somewhat lost on her. She loves playing with boys and what I find so intereting is that I don’t think they are even looking at her as a girl. She is a “girl guy”. The kind of girl that guys can hang out with and girls like because they know that the  boys think she is  cool.

Over that weekend, my husband and I dropped her off at her little friend boys house. It was her first time there. Upon the door opening she walked right in, high fived the boy and sat on his couch, her legs curled under her and stated, “What you watching? I-Carly. We were given the signal from her to leave. It is basically a hand wave and a look that can kill that leads us to our exit.

Later upon picking her up. She was off playing with her friend boy. The mother indicated that our daughter is amazing as all the boys were following her as they went from game to game. They had gone to GameWorks, a fun filled place where all kinda games are played. Later in the car, she did indicate that she and another little boy were playing and he put his hands on his shoulders, She pretended that she was going to knee him. She said, “Tony said, “Don’t break the “ball sack.” Laughing she rolled over thinking that was the funniest thing she had ever heard. What and how she thought that was funny is beyond me except to say she has never heard that in our house.

The party went great. There is a wonderful photo of my daugther with these wonderful smart and funny boys. One day, she will look back and remember how great it was to be one of the boys.

Last Friday, I was just beginning to enter into hourly conference calls in order to drum up new business with my partner. It looked like a promising day…The house phone rang and I asked my partner to hold on my cell phone. Before I picked up I read the called ID, Smith School. I anxiously picked up the phone and said, “Hello.” On the other line was the guidance counselor who calmly stated, “Mrs. Cooper I have your daughter Susie in my office and while it is not an emergency I think you should come to school as soon as you can.” “What is this about I inquired?” Susie has written a note, ah a mean note to someone and she would like to tell you what happened.” “I am on my way I hurriedly said,” I forgot that my partner who had been hanging on my cell phone and heard every word. I told her I would call her back and explained briefly what had just happened on the other line.

My first thought was to call my husband. While after 22 years I rarely consult him, my emotions were in a full sprint around my mindful track. I needed a trainer to slow my pace because it was clear the finish line was further away then the distance I thought I could run. He too, was about to enter into a slew of conference calls which were abruptly canceled. I picked him up and drove to school.

There we held hands showing a concerned front. Once inside the Lower School Office we were met with the guidance counselor who had called us and then as if we were in a police preceint, we were met with the Lower School Head. It looked like this was going to be difficult case to crack and two detectives were needed to snuff out the case of my nine year old 3rd grader.

In the conference room we sat down. My daughter looked fragile and scared, I was too. Detective guidance counselor handed me the culprit, a note written in number 10 pencil on a plain white piece of xerox paper. The note read: Dear Lola, I have been wanting to tell you that I hate your guts. You are a slimy, booger head and you are a dumb weirdo. Plus, you have the stupidest voice of anybody I know. YOU SUCK! From: Julia on the bus. Shocked and appalled my nerves first were making me laugh. Like nervous laughter, a huge smile spread across from my face. The clenched teeth however were holding inside the terror I was truly feeling.

The first line of questioning began, “Susie did you write this not?” Yes, the word guilty came out. My daughter explained to the detectives and us that she was on the bus with one of her friends. Her friend asked whether she wanted to write a note to another girl on the bus that they both knew. My daughter said yes. The other girl began to dictate to her newly found secretary. Once my daughter realized what kind of note she was writing she wanted to quit her new position, but her boss, her friend refused to let her off the hook and kept refusing to let her off her job. Once the note was written, my daughter begged to have her friend rip it up. The friend agreed. They pinkie promised. The most delusionary promise in the world. The next thing my daughter knew was that her friend was going to rip up the note. Only low and behold, the note she thought she tore up surfaced at school in the hands of the recipient who properly handed it to her parents who then turned it into the school. There, the one sided truth was on the table. I was waiting until we were excused so that I could severely punish my daughter, circa 1960 like my father did to me. I was wondering what belt I should use, the Gucci or Hermes. However, I didn’t want to scratch the H buckle… Instead, the two detectives praised my daughter for her honestly and that they were sure that she was waiting to give us a hug. A HUG. Are you joking? I want to smack her and have her repent for her sins all weekend long.

I smiled, of course we do. My daughter was realized from the shackles of shame and was sent to home to sit in her blinged out pink room which would be her holding cell for the rest of the weekend.

A lesson learned or a life lesson? A blimp on the radar? Or the beginnings of a serial killer? Is this reflective of parenting? Or is parenting completely overrated? When our child scores well on a test, or comes in first in softball or exceeds our expectations we bask in the glory of our parenting skills, when something like this happens or a failed mark is revealed we wonder where we went wrong? Should we own the mistakes as well as the successes or give it to our children to own?

Over the weekend, my daughter wrote an apology to the girl and to the two detectives. She also, I am embarrassed to admit had a softball game, went for lunch with her teammate, and went to a play the following day with friends. All planned and payed for activities that actually keep most of us parents from the punishing. But are life lessons meant to be punished?

I wish I had the answers, but like the school I too am looking for answers into this domain known as parenthood. It is a hood that comes with uncharted waters. Sometimes it can be rough.

I was told that it is better that my daughter experience this now rather then in high school when there will be stronger influences. Will she then have the ability to say NO? Will she remember that she helped hurt someone, or will this be a blimp on her radar? Only time will tell.

Are we too hard on our children? Do we expect our years of experience and wisdom to be departed all by the time they are 10 years old?

The lesson I as a parent have learned is to give my child my heart and to know that she can come to me with any questions and concerns she has and that I won’t get upset. It’s impossible at her age to understand that I am sure, it was for me. Parents are those people who are there to get upset for wrong doings because that is the real world. Our family is not Hannah Montana or I Carly. We are not the Brady Bunch or Father Knows Best…we are the Bunkers. We yell and scream sometimes, sometimes we are loving and most often we all get second chances…because we need them.

The lesson my child has learned will be written in years to come. The lesson I  learned is that this was only the first chapter.

Over the Presidents weekend, I took my nine year old daughter to Deer Valley, Utah to ski. We have been skiing there for five years. A friend of mine offered for us to stay with her and her four girls in their condo until Wednesday of that week when her husband would be arriving. My husband stayed back to work. Plus he doesn’t ski so once again I found myself on a family vacation as a single mother with my child. Skiing is a wonderful sport, but it is not a relaxing sport until of course you have a kier wine next to the fireplace at Stein Erickson’s lodge waiting for your Bison  beef burger to arrive. Otherwise, its like the routine of going to school only instead of studying, you’re skiing.

We were up by 7:00 a.m. most mornings, getting dressed in our layers, five young girls putting on ski boots. Once up on the mountain, there is the task of standing in line to get your skis and poles from the valet. Schlepping them to the mountain. Hitting the snow off the bottom of your boots so that you can snap them into your bindings. Pushing off with all of your arm strength to the lift line and finally sitting your tush on the chairlift.

Because it was a week where most schools across the country were on break, many of my friends from New York would be there as well. I found myself on the mountain when my cell phone would ring with numerous invitations. “Meet us at Empire Lodge at 12:00″ said one of my friends. “My son is off with his instructor, I will be on the Ontario run at 11:30, so meet me there then,” instructed another friend. I felt like I was driving on I-95 trying to get to one appointment after another. Traversing across the lift lines to  ski as fast as I could to my designated meeting spots, looking at my watch was crazy. I found myself booked all the time. While it was wonderful to see and be with all of my friends, it was also exhausting.

On Thursday, we made plans with friends to go tubing. It was a blast. However, after two hours of sitting my tush down in an inner tube and getting up to move my inner tube down another mountain and continually doing this for over two hours I was beat. We then went to a loud Sports Bar to meet other friends and watch the Olympics. I began to get Adult ADD. Attention Deficit Disorder. I just needed to be in my own bed with my 500 count Egyptian cotton thread count and down stuffed pillow watching American Idol.

Waking up at 6:00 a.m. again to go to school has put me over the top. I need a vacation from my vacation.