Teenage wasteland

To be honest, I don’t much like raising a teenager.  She’s kind of a bish.

Don’t get me wrong, I get it. I was a bitchy teen, too.  But really?!  Shove it in your pie hole, kid.  Not that I’d say that.  Well, I try not to say that. More than once a week. 

Here’s the situation: she won’t do what I say to do WHEN I say to do it and then she has the gall to get pissed when I get pissed that she hasn’t done what I’ve asked her to do. Apparently I’m always picking on her.

I remember when I was a new teen and I was having problems with my mother picking on me.  I thought I’d found a sympathetic ear with my neighbor’s boyfriend Victor. I was all, “…and the worst part is, she keeps asking me, ‘are you stupid?!’” And Victor, a parent himself, asked me, “Well, are you doing stupid things?”

Totally crushed.  Offended. Was I doing stupid things??? What the hell, Victor?!

I’d like to honestly answer that question now: OF COURSE I WAS, VICTOR. I WAS A TEEN!!!

I try not to be my mother.  She was hard on me. Her expectations were sometimes a tad delusional. Strict was a badge she wore proudly on her polyester lapel. Still, I’m kind of reluctantly gettin’ it now.  Sometimes you just want it done when you say you want it done. NOW. DO IT!! DO IT!!! DO IT!!!!!  I don’t care if you piss and moan the entire time it takes to carry your waste bin down the stairs and out into the garage. I don’t care if you do it naked and blaspheme with every step. JUST. PHUCKIN’. DO IT!!!!  And then? Bring the can back up straight away.

Bitch Supreme (aka ME): Princess? You left the can in the garage.

Princess: Because it smells.

Bitch Supreme (aka ME): Sitting in the hot garage will make that problem disappear?

Princess:

 

Also, did you know that the area where the trash can was is still fair game for trash… even when the can isn’t there?  I did not. I do now.  I’m thinking it’s a cosmic law or something because no amount of yelling or joking or threatening to take away their bathroom privileges makes a dent in my teen and tween’s beliefs that somehow the essence of the can is enough to hold their discarded whatevers.  The world is filled with magic, y’all.

It’s a spiral of shame, really. I say, do it, she says, later. maybe. if I feel like it. I say, do it now. She says, in my own time and in my own way. I say, your own way? What the hell?! You have a “way” of dumping your waste bin? You have a “way” of unloading the dishwasher? You have a “way” of throwing your contact containers away? Then my mother explodes from my chest and everyone who isn’t directly involved runs for cover.  This usually doesn’t end well for me, and my teen typically winds up with such well thought out punishments as: Your breathing privileges have been revoked!  or You must hold all the trash you generate in your trash in your hands FOREVER!!!  or In this house use of a bathroom is a PRIVILEGE. A privilege that YOU. JUST. LOST!!!!!

 

There really is no graceful way to end a confessional as horrible as this.  Teens make you do the crazy. Teens are the opposite of fun. Teens could happily live in their own filth – which might be fine if their filth didn’t encroach on my space and harsh my mental mellow.

Yeah, yeah. I hear you veterans. One day I’ll miss all of this. I’m calling bullshit.  I can say with 100% certainty that I will not miss the mess, the nastiness, the biohazards that come with the teenage wasteland. Just like I can say with 100% certainty that I don’t miss the diapers and the ass-explosions and sleepless nights and tantrums that came with their baby years.

 

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