Crossing With Trepidation Into Adolescence
I am officially the mother of a teenager.
My oldest daughter turned 13 last week, and if the horror stories are to be believed, she will emerge from her room any moment now with a nose ring and purple hair to scream at me--over the din of pounding rap music and through a haze of marijuana smoke--”you can’t tell me what to do!” And if I’m really unlucky, when she finishes yelling and storms out of the house, a boy with tattoos and a criminal record will be outside waiting for her, parked on the street in a lowrider car.
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I know it doesn’t happen overnight, this reckless plunge into teenage rebellion. And I’m sure my daughter’s adolescence will include occasional moments of sweetness and light.
But to tell the truth, I’m a little scared.
Friends who have been through the wringer with teenage daughters have warned me that she’ll hate me, hide from me, seem determined at times to undo years of devotion and love.
They say it’s inevitable--even necessary--that as she begins to spread her wings, she’ll bang against the cage that is my love.
Already I’ve seen flashes, when hormone swings turn my naturally sweet and good-natured child into a raving lunatic who slams doors and screams at the slightest provocation.
And I’ve felt the exhaustion and bewilderment that comes with watching a child, whose every step you’ve charted through the years, move farther and farther away from you.
It seems like such a quantum leap from 12 to 13--from little girl to teenager. One minute she was 12 and we were lounging in bed watching Nickelodeon cartoons. Now, she retreats to her own room, closes the door and tunes her new TV to “Dawson’s Creek.” (For the uninitiated, that’s the teenage equivalent of steamy “Melrose Place.”)
Last year, her birthday gifts included stuffed animals and fuzzy bedroom slippers. This year there was lipstick, eye shadow and blue mascara--from her little sisters, whose fascination with the teenager thing sets my teeth on edge.
“You’re 13 now. . . . You can have a boyfriend!” the 7-year-old says brightly.
“Right,” my new teenager says back--but is that sarcasm or confirmation?
My heart skips a beat as I study her face and realize I no longer can decipher just what her smile means.
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We celebrated her birthday as our family always does--with dinner at her favorite restaurant.
It’s one of those Japanese places where the chef puts on a show at the teppan table, and dinner for one can cost more than it would cost to feed my entire family at our local pizza shop.
As I always do, I ordered my three kids’ meals from the children’s menu--same food, smaller portions, lower price. But this time the waitress surveyed my brood and shook her head.
“Not for you,” she said, pointing her pencil at the birthday girl. “Too old. Only for 10 years old and younger. How old are you?”
My daughter’s face flushed as she stammered, “Thirteen.”
When I looked at her, I realized what the waitress saw--a beautiful girl on her way to becoming a beautiful woman. No longer my scrawny little tomboy in pigtails and a baggy T-shirt.
And her eyes, I noticed, were brimming with tears.
“I want the kids’ meal, Mom,” she whispered. “Please?”
“You can’t,” I told her gently. Then to the waitress, “Make that two children’s dinners, and two adults’.”
Maybe it was simply embarrassment that pushed her to tears--shame over being singled out, made to feel as though she were trying to cheat.
Or maybe--and I know I’m projecting here--it was the sudden realization that she has crossed the threshold from child to adult, and this public pronouncement made it seem impossible to ever go back.
And maybe, just maybe, like me, she’s scared.
* Sandy Banks’ column is published Mondays and Fridays. Her e-mail address is sandy.banks@latimes.com.
