Teen aged daughters are fickle, fickle creatures. They are. They hate you, but they can’t live without you. They must know your opinion about everything, but then they choose to ignore it. They pretend you don’t have feelings and then proceed to break your heart.
You may think I am paranoid, but I am really beginning to think that she thinks it’s her job to make me feel like an old hag.
Me: Why do you keep doing that when I tell you not to do that?
Paige: Duh. Because it’s my job to make you feel all old and shriveled up inside.
But once in a while, when it’s really late at night and no one is looking, Paige will crawl into bed with me and we will watch vintage Beastie Boys videos on Youtube. And then she’ll say something like,
“Please mommy, tell me that story about the three Jewish guys from New York who formed a rap band again. Pretty please.”
And for one brief second, she actually realizes that it was me who heard the song first, not her. And for one really small moment in time she knows that I know more than she does.
But she never admits it.
Recent Comments