Blast From The Past

This is an old story I wrote -- about 4 years ago. . . . . .


Terrible Twos vs. Tormenting Teens

I don't see what the big deal is about the Terrible Twos. Though it's only a distant memory in my past, I seemed to have emerged unscathed from the trio-ed event in my life. It is true that by age two a child gets a sense of independence with the belief that the entire universe revolves around their schedule to eat, sleep and play. Their favorite words, which they utter all day long, are emphatically stated, "No!" and "Mine!”. They begin to realize there's a whole world out there and it's theirs to discover but of course, the discovery must be met on their own terms. Mothers are in a constant battle of Terrible Twos vs. Parental Guidance. It's an exhausting adventure, at best. You get through the tantrums and trying days but there is something marvelous that gives you hope and strength to do it all the next day. When that terrible toddler is hungry, sick, scared or tired guess what she does? She calls for the comforting arms of her mommy. Just about the time you're ready to strap your toddler into a playpen and design a mesh lid to fit over the top of it, that wadding little bundle of terror climbs onto your lap and puts her chubby little arms around your neck. Who couldn't love that? Taking a quantum leap into the future, take that same sense of independence and self-centered nature, mix it in with raging hormones and peer pressure, pack it into a full grown body that has a license to drive and my friend, welcome to the world of parenting a teen. Terrible Twos? Please! That only lasts one year. With teenagers we're talking seven years. You can forget any light of hope because when that teen is hungry, sick, scared or tired, they're just ticked off because it's your fault. That's right! You and only you make their world the miserable existence it is. After all, you are the most stupid unreasonable creature on the face of the earth. Everything must be your fault! One day you are Mommy of the Year for simply bringing in a couple dozen cupcakes to a Halloween class party and the next day, you have no sense of style, your music is old fashioned and boring, everything you say or do is stupid, your expectations are unfair and unreasonable and you don't know hip language which makes you nothing more than an embarrassment in public. In the midst of raising three teens, I'm quickly learning the dos and don'ts of public behavior. Essentially, when in public, behave like you don't know me. That's what your teens want. Yes, the Terrible Twos are just the dress rehearsal for the Tormenting Teens.

Having the joy of two teenaged daughters, we have a tri-cycle of hormones bouncing off the walls in our home. It's like playing hormone bumper pool in our house. As if dealing with my own PMS isn't bad enough, now I have to be on the receiving end of my daughters' PMS swings. You would think being a woman I'd be a little sympathetic to my own child's estrogen surges but this is survival of the fittest instincts. The dominate female of the pride prevails! Cruel and heartless as it may sound, estrogen somehow overtakes even motherly instincts. Forget that smoke detector we have installed on each level of the house, I need an estrogen detector at my house!

Much like my alarm clock, my Estrogen Detector (ED) will go off each morning giving me the estrogen levels of the day. When pollen hits a certain level there are warnings for those afflicted with allergies to stay indoors. My ED will warn me when it's unsafe to remain in the home. When the estrogen levels are light, my ED will sound a bell detecting some slight levels of estrogen in the house. With this, I'll causally get up and go through my morning routine as usual. As levels increase, the ED will be more alarming like the Lost in Space robot giving repetitious signals, "Warning, Warning...estrogen is peaking!” At this yellow light alarm, I'll proceed with caution making sure I keep my distance, shut my mouth, don't make eye contact and move out swiftly. The last and final warning will be the tornado, fire alarm, burglar alarm, Cuban missile crisis and weapons of mass destruction all-in-one alarm. The ED will say, "WARNING! WARNING! HIGH LEVELS OF ESTROGEN DETECTED IN THE HOME. RUN FOR COVER! GET OUT! EVERY WOMAN FOR HERSELF! TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE! DO NOT STOP FOR THE FAMILY PHOTO ALBUMS! DO NOT PASS GO! DO NOT COLLECT $200! SAVE YOURSELF!" With this high leveled warning, I'd jump out of bed, grab my clothes and emergency toiletry bag and make a mad dash out of the house before any contact is made with the estrogen spewing teens. For extra protection, I'll be armed with my Wonder Woman estrogen deflector wrist bands. These golden wonders work like Wonder Woman's bullet bands. As I make my mad dash out of the house, I can raise my arms to block any estrogen attacks such as, "This is so unfair, you are so mean, I need $50, where are you going? (as if my going to work in the morning is a sudden shock to the girls), I have nothing to wear, my hair is so dumb....Mom! I need to go shopping, why can't I have my own car? Why are you looking at me? Stop looking at me................"

After spending eight long hours at work, I will eventually have to come home. Knowing the dangerous estrogen will probably still be present, I've come up with a solution for reentry. NASA spent 4 billion dollars on some rocket scientist invention for protecting the Apollo passengers from the heat of reentering the atmosphere. I've come up with my own $2.48 protective solution. As if to wave the proverbial white flag, I ease the door to a slight opening and wave a 99 cent bottle of nail polish and $1.49 lip gloss. At this Monica, my youngest teen, grabs the loot and scurries to her den like a mouse that has won the cheese without being caught in the trap. In this instance, the trap is conversation with Mom. With that potential Claymore mine disarmed, I then wave a Miami application through the tiny opening in the door. My oldest teen, Amanda, snatches her loot and now both teens are deep into their teenaged fortresses. The bait has worked. I just bought myself two hours of estrogen free peace and quiet.

After the two hours of solitude, Amanda emerges from her den. I raise my arms to engage my Wonder Woman deflectors only to realize she's just passing through on her way to the computer. She gets online to research the average ACT/SAT scores of high school students accepted into Miami. She then gets offline to call her high school counselor (she has her on speed dial) to inform her that she needs to get into French IV. "But Amanda," her counselor explains, "you are only a junior and we can't get your senior schedule together yet." I know," Amanda states as she tries to remain clam, "but I thought I didn't want to take French for four years but now I see most Miami students have four years of a foreign language and I thought if I plan ahead, I won't miss the opportunity to get into French IV. I need to be in French IV. I have to be in French IV. PLEASE GET ME A RESERVED SEAT IN FRENCH IV!" Poor woman, I think to myself about the counselor, she has no idea the estrogen levels have peaked for the month! The counselor then mumbles something to Amanda about a restraining order and unlisted phone number. Confused by her own PMS status, Amanda retreats to Miami website for some more in depth research. Ah, I bought another hour of solitude. Meanwhile, back in the Gloss & Shimmers of Sweetness Den, Monica is trying to determine if her new shade of nail polish and lip gloss looks better applied in stripes, polka dots or jut plain. She's arranged every piece of clothing she owns to match the new shades but it was an easy task to accomplish as all she had to do was sit on the floor, the place where most of her clothing gathers and lives. As I tip toe around my own home, I hear my ED dwindle down to a mere hum noting it's once again safe to resume a "normal" life. At this, my girls emerge from their dens. Monica proudly displays her painted nails saying, "Thanks for the nail polish, Mom. I like the sparkles." Amanda comes to me with a printed out form from the Miami website saying, "Mom, what do you think about this?" I know it's just the quiet before the next storm but I savor the moment just like I did when that terrible two toddler climbed onto my lap with her chubby little arms around my neck saying, "I wuv you Mommy!"

As I walk out of the room I hear the girls say, "Hey Mom, what's up with those gold bracelets? You aren't going to wear those in public, are you?"