Crashing Into Walls
I’m at the stove, ranting on about chores and the importance of contributing to the family system and what it means to do so without complaining, as Tate is packing up her soccer bag for the next day and getting changed …
“That’s #5!” I hear her shout, from around the corner.
I think - What is that supposed to mean? Now what did I say that’s so offensive? That she’s actually counting?!
The next time she comes through the kitchen, already sort of offended and sad she’s talking about me like this, I ask, “What does that mean, #5, Tate? Number five what?”
I wonder what I did now, hurt by how I could bother her so much when I used to be the center of her world.
How could I be that annoying? I mean, I’m actually an awesome mom. She could have Laurie as a mom, for heaven’s sake …
No answer.
“Tate?!”
She’s back in her bedroom getting her soccer socks on so most likely can’t hear me. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to.
Then, she appears in the kitchen again, holding her right arm, “What’s for dinner?”
“Spaghetti.” I question whether or not I want to even ask what she was ‘saying behind my back’ and counting.
Then, though my belly’s clenched, I muster the courage, “What was #5?”
“Oh, that was just the fifth time I walked into a wall today.” Eyes big, big news. “Literally, Mama, I dunno why I’m crashing into walls. But, I keep doing it and it really hurts!”
I crack up. Completely relieved. It had zero to do with me.
“Seriously, honey? Just crashing into walls? That’s kind of hilarious.”
We chuckle together about the absurdity of these times. Puberty. Hormones.
Her poor body.
My poor ego. Reliving all the unhealed parts of my own adolescence, right there in my grown-up kitchen. Assuming she’s talking about me, the way lots of kids did in middle school? Sheez, Jenn, it’s no longer 1984 . . .
