Parenting by the Book: Redux

Because blunt force trauma is NOT an option. (Note: I am a steadfast advocate of AP and any reference to physical trauma/corporal punishment is an outlet for my perverse fantasies of being a crazed bad ass.)

Ah the joys of parenting. I knew my time would come-you know the time when my sweet child would be abducted by the Bad Attitude Aliens from Planet Tween Brat and implanted with a device which affects their ability to discern from acceptable acts and those of assholiness. Actually, I lie. Jordan- while his ability to tell time and make curfew is often questionable-(as is much of his overall pubescent male judgment), he is exceptionally pleasant. I thought perhaps, just maybe by some FAR stretch of the imagination- given my own youthful personality offenses, I had bred some advanced well-adjusted aptly social neophyte. Not.

There has been an influx in duck-lipped (grossly exaggerated pouting) eyes-rolling, foot stomping, hyperventilating tween girl in a tizzy antics ’round these parts. And the worst part is, “nothing is wrong”. “What’s wrong?” Mumbles, “nothing”. “Well why do you look like that?” “Like what”, as the first eye roll is delivered. “Like this”. I put on my thespian mom hat and engage in a brief game of charades. Whining ensues, as she says something unintelligible followed by “Nothingggggggggggggggggggggggggggg”. Lips begin to stretch, eyes roll and roll and rolllllllllll, she rocks back in the seat to gain momentum as she rises to full erectness and stomps her flat little fresh-mouthed girl feet across my floor (when I’m annoyed I become unnecessarily territorial, other examples include but are not limited to; “You had better clean my damn kitchen”) and into her CLOSET-also known as “Oh-my-god- I-really-hate-her-camp”.

The best part is she will emerge shortly after with the NERVE to interrupt my double Alka-Seltzer on the rocks and a repeat of a repeat of Forensic Files (I need to be reminded that the criminals always get caught.) and says in a dulcet tone, “What’re we having for _____(insert: breakfast, snack, lunch, dinner-just for plain ol’ shits and giggles). Essentially she says, “Hey Robot Lady sans feelings! Yeah you with the stretch marks; no slacking on the job!” Sigh.

So, I bought these books by Dr. Barbara Becker Holstein today. One is for me and the other is for us-after all, we’re in this thing together, she and I. I used what would have been my new Moo cards money, I figure promotional materials aren’t practical in the penitentiary; first things first. I’ll let you know how it goes. At least I have another night of American Idol auditions to chortle over and glazed donuts. Winks.

This essay originally appeared on my blog, Tea & Honey Bread in January (hence the revealing of my American Idol shame). I’m pleased to report that Yael, my resident tween and I enjoyed the guidance gleaned from Dr. Holstein’s books and have been progressing nicely towards puberty (Begins to sob.) If you can relate to any of what I’ve mentioned in my writing, head to the nearest bookstore, preferably one with a coffee bar (or a regular bar) toute de suite.