Raising a preadolescent is a novel experience for me. Lots of labile feelings that must-be-released-right-NOW!
Heretofore unseen levels of resistance over what were previously accepted responsibilities and conventions: Doing dishes. Maintaining hygiene. Not leaving wet towels on the floor of one's room.
My wife likes to joke that her departed grandmother always had a knack for asking the most sensitive question at the most vulnerable moment.
How did that date go?
How much weight have you gained with this pregnancy?
My preadolescent seems to have inherited her grandmother's unsettling gift.
Which is why it was so surprising to be the proverbial fly on the wall last week as my daughter spoke to her friend via computer video call, and to see that conflict is only part of how she is experiencing the recent changes in our relationship.
We were in two adjoining living spaces with an open layout where sound naturally carries, so no intentional spying occurred.
Daughter: How are you doing?
Friend: Pretty bored. How about you?
Daughter: I worry about my dad. He's taking care of a lot sick people whenever he works in the hospital.
Friend: Has he gotten sick?
Daughter: No, but he had a patient who wasn't breathing well. My dad had to put in a breathing tube to help him.
Friend: No!
Daughter: Yeah. He would have died. My dad pretty much saved his life.
Friend: That's really scary.
Daughter: My dad's pretty cool.
I'm a sap. I cry in movies. So it's not like weeping is a rarity for me.
But there's something that gets to my core when I look at the past week's daily (sometimes hourly) conflicts and take heart that, with luck, maybe she'll remember me as more than a taskmaster.