"What's This?"

Many of my more experienced mom friends tell of a time that our teenage children will all but stop communicating with us. They'll tell of a time that our teenagers will become so immersed in their own little world, that we will become spectators to their lives.

Fortunately for me, that hasn't happened with Hadley yet.

I have no words for this. 

Did I say fortunately? Pffft.

This morning as I was wrestling with my clothes, getting dressed (I do this more often now that I'm a stiff forty-something-year-old woman than I ever did as a young child learning to dress myself), Hadley came to my bedroom door and said, "What's this?"

My head, of course, was caught in my sleeve but I responded anyway, "I can't really see it."

"This, Momma. What is this?" she insisted.

I pulled my head through the proper hole and said, "Oh, socks."

She sighed so hard that my hair blew from my forehead. "No, Momma. This." Then she thrust a pair of socks at me.

"Slip on socks?" I answered, the question mark actually seemed audible.

"No," she said through gritted teeth, "THIS."

"I don't know, honey. They look like a pair of footies," note my use of a different word, "that one would wear with slip on shoes. Or at least that's the way I use them."

She rolled her eyes so hard into her head that I thought she was about to seize. "Geez, Momma. THIS." She spit the word out slowly and loudly as if she were speaking to a rude, elderly, foreigner who couldn't speak English.

I stared at her. I blinked. I didn't know any other way to say slip on socks.

With a lock of her knees, she explained herself. "This. This. This. This," each time shaking the (dare I say it) socks at me.

"Honey, I have no clue what you're talking about. I call those socks. Is that not right?" I confessed, possibly with a lump in my throat and a fleeting thought about early onset Alzheimer's. They say you can loose the simple vocabulary first.

She dropped her chin to her chest and roller her head between her shoulders, popping her neck as if she were gearing up for a prize fight or a Lincoln-Douglas Debate.

"THIS, Momma. THIS pad in the sock." Then she closed her eyes as if praying for the heavens to open and pour forth a bounty of patience as she dealt with the ignorance of the world.

"Oh," I stammered. "I think it's just a foot pad."

"Finally," she sighed as she took my padded socks with her and walked out of my room. "Was that so hard?"

Yes, child. Yes, it was hard. It was very hard.

When exactly do I get to be the observer?

Saturday the 14

Daughter 1, like every other tween and teen with a heart and blossoming bosoms, has been excitedly waiting for The Fault in our Stars to come to a theater near her. 

She and a friend worked for days--literally--to establish a day and a time they could go together. They finally decided Friday the thirteenth at 7:15 would be the best time. 

"You're going with us, right, Momma?"

Well, why not. 

I read the book in two days, forsaking laundry and cooking. I thought of ten thousand reasons to back out and let her and her friend go by themselves, but ultimately, I decided that it wasn't just a movie for me and my girl. It was a gift. 

My girl is almost a teen. Increasingly, she's becoming more and more independent. She's taking high school credits next year. She's leaving on Sunday for a week at college! She's forming her own opinions that are informed. She's growing up. 

So, I continued to forsake laundry and cooking and personal tasks like bathing so that I could spend the evening, invited, with my girl. 

My Friday the thirteenth? It was wonderful. I caught a glimpse of my sweet little, tender-hearted girl. It's been a while since that girl had invited me to be with her. 

Then we woke up Saturday and she ran out of deodorant and wouldn't use mine because it had touched my outs. And she couldn't decide with shoes to wear. I suggested her Toms, but that was stupid because, you know. Thirty minutes later she walked out if the house with her Toms on. And we didn't fix anything she liked for breakfast because we clearly don't love her and we made her wake up early to go to her sisters softball tournament because her sister is our favorite. And the wind was blowing. So, you know, there was that. 

But my Friday the thirteenth was great. 

G 49

We played BINGO last night with Daughter 2's school--none of us won (much). Wait. Let me back up.

Yesterday, The Daughters and I went to Tulsa to get a new power cord for my MacBook. The fact that it was raining sheets of water and that we'd have to drive an hour there and back did nothing to keep me from going to get my new power cord.

If I had known exactly how rough Daughter 1 would have made the trip, however, I might have thought twice.

Daughter 1 is entering that time in her life when everything--including life itself--is pretty much stupid and it takes very little for her to tell you, and anyone else listening, just how stupid everything is.

I wondered just how stupid it would be to leave her and her tween attitude on the side of the highway in the pouring rain. Thankfully, I realized it would be stupid. Very stupid. And I took her back home with me instead. Without going into great detail, I Googled how to join a convent. I'm not Catholic. Dammit.

As a result of her less-than-desirable attitude, I threatened to take away a lot of things: her birthday, her impending class trip, her oxygen, her books, her Kindle, and, possibly most important, her night with the family at BINGO.

But, I gave her an out. I wanted to show her redemption. "If you can change your attitude and just shut your mouth, I'll think about letting you go to BINGO with us."

And she did. She changed her attitude and kept her mouth shut, and we went to BINGO.

I've spent over 20 years teaching this age group. I've heard the parental angst that comes with parenting this age group. I remember the horrific-ness (shut it, Spellcheck; it's a word) that is being an adolescent. And what I know is this: It's not an easy age for anyone involved. Parenting my anxious, smart, obsessive, beautiful, impulsive kid through this time is rough, yo.

A Tiger Mom might have locked her in her room and stuck to her guns. Hell! A Tiger Mom might have used guns. And I'm fairly certain a Tiger Mom would have never even considered going to BINGO. Drs. Spock and Dobson might have spanked me for giving her an out of her behavior and letting her go to BINGO anyway. But ...

Sometimes, I think we need a win.

And last night, we almost got it.

The grand prize game was worth a gazillion dollars and contained everything, including, maybe, a kitchen sink. And my kid almost won it.

It was a blackout game, and she needed G 49 to win. On the screen, B 6 was posted.

She held her breath. The announcer called out, "B 6," and the new number posted on the screen G 49.

The rule is you cannot call out a BINGO until the announcer says the number. She began to take shallow breaths. She needed this win. I needed her to win. Sometimes teens get so caught up in the injustices of life--like no clean underwear and an earlier bedtime than everyone else in the world including babies--that this BINGO would have been a huge booster for my girl.

And then a little voice at the table next to us said, "BINGO!" And ... G 49 was never called. It was a good BINGO.

We all exhaled and cocked our heads to the side and said words like shoot and darn it and what the--.

Daughter 1 was disappointed, obviously. We all were. But I think the message here is clear:

When we are having a rough day, I'll be dropping her off at the American Legion because those old BINGO Bitties will have met their match in Daughter 1, and she appears to be kinda lucky despite her hellacious attitude.