Playing Favorites

So, Bryon has been traveling more than usual. In the past three weeks he has been home just a few days. And this weekend he left for another week-long trip. We said our goodbyes in the driveway. He headed to the airport. We headed to a hockey game.

As we pulled out of the driveway Abby said, "I don't think it's fair Daddy has to travel so much. I don't want him to go. He's my favorite parent."

Wait. What?

"He's your favorite parent?" I asked.

"Yes. Is that wrong?"

"No, it's not wrong," I said, "but it's something you might keep to yourself," I added under my breath.

After all I get it. Every year on Abby's birthday her Dad takes her out of school to see a movie. Once a month they go on a date to their favorite restaurant where Abby is more popular than Norm at Cheers.

I don't do those things. I only get up at the ass-crack of dawn to make her lunch and breakfast. I carry her from bed to the breakfast table. I drive her to and from school and chauffeur her and her giggling friends to soccer, ballet, jazz and gymnastics. I arrange all her play dates and sleepovers. I paint her toenails. I watch Girl Meets World over and over again and listen to Space Unicorns. I dance in the kitchen during our disco dance parties. I paint and draw and play Sorry and Barbie Bling. I help with homework and sign the reading logs. I tuck her in.

So, yeah, I guess I get it.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not bitter or discouraged. After all I have a favorite child.

No, wait. I DON'T!

Each of my kids is lovable and insufferable, delightful and devilish. I hate that Sam curses like a sailor but he still holds my hand when we're together. I hate Jake's meltdowns but love that he will seek me out during the day just to say he loves me. I don't love Abby's sass, but her love of all creatures great and small melts your heart.

Over the course of the day Abby and I watched the hockey game, shopped for Halloween costumes and got groceries, and there were many times I nearly asked her, "Hey Abby. So remember that time you said Dad was your favorite?" But I didn't. I may not have liked the answer.

Maybe she prefers Bryon because despite his grumpiness and impatience he doesn't sweat the small stuff like the placement of the couch pillows or the position of the bins under the TV or all the shoes outside the basket.

Or if he's the favorite parent.

Proceed With Caution

Have you ever got back in your car in a parking lot and you can't remember if there is a parking bumper at the front of your spot? You know that feeling you have when you are driving forward anyway, slowing anticipating the jolt that may or may not happen?

That's how I feel all the time.

Time, Time, Time ... See What's Become of Me

So when you have a 13 year old you find yourself in situations that make you feel old. Normally, I would say I don't feel old - except for the odd pain and creak here and there. In my head I'm the 17 year old from high school. But with a 13 year old you are reminded that although you feel 17, you are not. You may still love rock music but why does it have to be so loud. You like spontaneity - at the right time and place. You don't mind staying up late ... if you can nap the next day. You envy a diet of Fritos and Dr Pepper but really shouldn't because  ....

But the thing that makes me feel old is butting heads with a 13-year-old boy. Arguments that sound stodgy and intolerant and boring. Because I said so. Because I know better. I shouldn't have to remind you. If you only knew. When I was your age.

Ugh. I'm not sure parenting would be so hard if it didn't age you so. Suddenly there's a huge chasm between you and this person - this little person you birthed and bathed and swaddled and rocked. This little person who thought you hung the moon. Who ran to you with such excitement at the end of the day. Now this kid is saying things you don't hear in a Quentin Tarantino movie and on one hand, you understand. You really do. You were there. You were THERE. But on the other hand, Jesus, kid. I know better. Listen to me. I'm telling you BECAUSE I KNOW BETTER.

Do I let it go? Do I listen quietly and respond calmly and rationally? Do I take away every luxury the kid has and banish him to his bedroom? Do I ignore it because I went through the same thing and here I am.

I don't know.

One thing I do know. A 13-year-old kid isn't the only one with growing pains. Every time I react as a 46 year old, my heart cracks a little. Another wrinkle creases my forehead. Another age spot darkens my hand.

So, Sam. I'm doing the best I can. You are doing the best you can. While the world is shaking and crumbling and rebuilding around us can we just remember that underneath it all is good. Good intentions. Smart minds. Full, bursting hearts.

It's going to get harder. But I have faith it's also going to get easier.