The "IT" Girl

When I retrieved my daughter from "poms" practice at the high school late yesterday afternoon, she told me she had been too stressed to eat all day. Boy, was I glad I happened to have gotten dinner ready before I picked her up.

But I was distraught. When your kid tells you she's stressed, and you're someone who thinks everything is your fault, it can be devastating. I immediately rejected the idea that she might be stressed for the same reasons other fifteen year olds are stressed this time of year, with September approaching and the lazy, carefree days of summer becoming an increasingly distant memory.

So I pressed her, and, naturally, she offered up a laundry list of stresses that would cause any teenager to break out, but she included the vague "what's going on with you and dad." I heard nothing else. Talk about stress; I could feel more of my teeth starting to crack.

My therapist told me last week that I'm good at problem solving. I immediately put those skills to work. "Well you can erase that from your list of stresses. You don't need to worry about what's going on with me and dad." Pretty clever, huh? Like telling someone not to think about the pink elephant in the room.

We dropped it, to the extent I can drop anything, which means for about a nano-second. "Anything in particular bothering you?" I thought I had been so careful. No bad-mouthing, no details, no finger pointing. Same on his end.

"I just don't want to hear about it."

Oh. My therapist has also told me that kids, no matter how old they are -- even if they're married with kids of their own -- don't want to hear about mom and dad's problems. Any of it. Last week, I arrived home quite late for dinner twice because of court appearances and meetings with my attorneys downtown. I suppose I could have told her I had been at a party, but I had already been stupidly honest about the day's destination, so that wasn't an option. Both of those days, I came home drained, exhausted, and maybe just a little anxious. Knowing she already knew I had been dealing with divorce "stuff," I assured her that things were going well and dad and I were working hard to get it all done. I realize now that no news might have been more preferable, in her mind, to good news. I should have kept my mouth shut.

"Fair enough," I responded. When she says she doesn't want to hear about "it," she is by no means referring to any gory details. She is just referring to "IT." Its very existence. I get it.

I apologized to her for adding in any way to her stress, and she seemed to accept my apology. And she seemed relieved that she had said something to me, that from here on in, she wouldn't have to hear anything about IT. I could see her face lightening, her entire body relaxing, as if a great burden had been lifted. For one more day, at least, I feel confident that I will not be sued for "bad mothering," as some poor soul in Chicago recently was for failing to buy her kids good birthday presents or to put checks or cash in their birthday cards.

Just to be sure, I stopped on the way home from teaching yoga last night and bought her an oreo McFlurry. I even waited to ask for a taste until I knew she was done. We smiled, we chatted for a while, and everything, for a brief moment, seemed right with our world.