How is it that as I find my own hormones waxing and waning I am perpetually subject to the radically unpredictable and unwieldy hormones of 2 teenage daughters?  That’s a rhetorical question of course because exactly 13 and 17 years ago respectively I willingly walked (so to speak) myself in to this life of hormonal captivity.

One night at my house looks like this:

  • Izzy, the 13 year old, doesn’t want to eat dinner because she is bored and thinks something is wrong with her because she hasn’t been hungry for a day.  This is then followed by tears and the admission that she probably shouldn’t stay home alone all day when on school vacation and a request to go to the capitol with me in the morning;
  • Gillian, the 17 year old is giving me the evil eye about my once again “can we talk about college” discussion, leading to yet another stand-off followed by screaming, anger, tears, apologies, hugs and then a decision to go shopping;
  • On the way to Pretty Woman in Hartford, I tell Izzy she is going to see Eric Clapton with me on Saturday night.  After I play her a Clapton tune she tries to jump out of the moving car;
  • At Pretty Woman all I can do is look in the mirror and think “shit I am old” and “omg I’ve turned in to my mother”;
  • Izzy and I take off to Sally’s next door where the ensuing argument has to do with why I won’t spend $25 to get her acrylic nails – finally settling on air brush glue on nails for $7 we move on;
  • Back to Pretty Woman I pretend to be hip enough to help Gillian find some cool clothes only to end up across the street at McDonalds for a Mocha Frappe at Gillian’s loving encouragement;
  • On our way home, Izzy tells us the story of her 360 degree latin class fart while subsequently admitting that yes, in fact, she owns up to her farts because everyone knows anyway so you might as well just admit it;
  • Finally home, Gillian, now happy and feeling great, gives us a fashion show of her new clothes and Izzy dances around the kitchen singing “I’m naked” to some rap tune she made up;
  • The night ends with an informative, funny and poignant conversation about what vaginas are “supposed” to look like, periods or the lack thereof, hormones and assurances that someday they too may choose to become mothers – to which I can’t help but warn them that payback is a bitch :0)…..

All that said, I wouldn’t change a thing and find that humor and some very good friends are the only way to survive these years of hormones, moods, angst, and drama.  I also rely heavily on the wisdom of moms older than me who assure me that both girls will fight like hell to leave my arms, leaving a bond the width of dental floss between us as they go, but somewhere in their early 20’s will come back and embrace me, maybe thank me and/or at least acknowledge the hell they put me through.

In the meantime, I will make sure that every day they know how much I love them and that my arms are always there and wide open for them.

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