Then she was 12
My daughter turned 12 in March. No one really prepared me for the transition. It felt like just yesterday, all problems could be solved by her favorite blanket and turning up the Apples and Bananas song. Sometimes I find myself staring at her, wondering where this half formed human came from. Some days she impresses me, other days she scares the shit out of me.
Case in point, a few months ago she told me she had a boyfriend. I didn’t respond. This felt early. A boyfriend. When I didn’t respond, she asked me if I heard her correctly. I asked her what boyfriends meant in sixth grade. I then told her I had a boyfriend in the sixth grade and we literally never spoke and he bought me white carnations and danced with me six feet apart in the middle school cafeteria she eats at, while dancing to Hotel California. Her expression was a mix of shock and horror. It must be hard to hear about how cool your mother was/is.
24 hours later, her boyfriend broke up with her. I found her crying on her bed in her bedroom. This was for the best, I assure you. The boy in question, he’s actually a great kid. He’s been over to the house, I think he makes an awesome friend for her, especially when girls can be fickle and cruel, maybe in 25 years she can date him for real and then he can get her something better than white carnations.
But this is a 12-year-old for you. They are trying out their sass, but it comes off less sarcastic and more hurtful and no one is more sensitive than the woman who wiped their ass 12 year ago. It’s such a dilemma. The Tik Tok, the Snap chat, the Instagram. When I was in middle school, my friend Casey and I used to trade notes between classes and we WORRIED about those being intercepted. Now I am constantly threatening my pre-teen with the knowledge that words, photos, screen shots can’t be deleted. I have Tik Tok just to stalk her and also to check for sexual predators. Its hard to be constantly vigilant about your 12-year-old when all you listen to are crime podcasts and crime Netflix shows. When she wants to walk to the park, I let her because I have to right? She is a half grown shortie. I remind her not to approach the white vans, the maroon vans, men who are five feet, men who are six feet, boys who think they are men. By the time I am finished with her and yelling make good choices down the road, I think she has already transitioned to Ruth from Ozark, managing her own night club and all the other dark forces.
It is hard to observe watching her grow from an awkward firth grader, to a midriff wearing sixth grader. She is so smart, so beautiful, my old soul, and one of my greatest gifts, but I am also struggling to find my way with her. I go into her room and she silences her phone, remarks that she is on face time, or simply asks when dinner is ready. I miss reading to her, her chubby cheeks surrounded by bath bubbles, the uncertainty of her hand leaving mine when she went on a new play date. Now I have trouble getting her to stay home, or have a conversation, or not slam the door. I am torn between protecting her and honoring her need to find her way, and telling her to go to hell and declaring there is one broad on this street who wears a crown.
Is it possible to love someone so deeply and not stand them at the same time? I think she is good in school. She works hard. Her grades are amazing. Last week, she informed me her social studies teacher had underscored her on a quiz. Two days later, the grade was up, she had resubmitted the test. I watched her smile curl with satisfaction. She did it. The grade. All on her own and that has been her this year. She does the google meets, the practices, drama, overnights. Kelly Clarkson is singing Miss Independent in the background of each room of our house, and yet she is not grown. She makes mistakes, loses her way, looks back for support at certain times. I cherish these moments, of still being needed, but I’ll tell you 12 is a whole lot different than 11 and sometimes it breaks my Hotel California heart.