Allow Me a Moment to Martyr

Awhile back I was embroiled in (sigh…another) verbal smackdown with my teenaged daughter when suddenly her words stunned and silenced me.  We’d been battling over her (pick one) grades, motivation, effort, future -- or pick ‘em all:  it was one of those fights -- when she suddenly spat out, “It doesn’t even matter.  When I get sick of working I’m just going to get married and become a stay-at-home mom.”  Well.  Imagine that.  Figuring out life all before a fifteenth birthday.

            While I could have reveled in the belief that her words signified respect and admiration for the path her own mother had somewhat chosen I couldn’t help but assess the underlying tone of, well, insult.  As only mothers of teenaged girls know, these submerged swipes – usually harmless, always stinging – are mostly thoughtless spouts of misdirected anger.  Funny thing, though, they’re also rather telling.

            Like so many times before I found myself wondering, “Now what the hell is THAT supposed to mean?”

            It’s a tough road to navigate.  Naturally I want my daughter to (insert motivational catchphrase here) strive for excellence!  be the best you can be! and shoot for the stars! Yet it’s glaringly obvious she may not exactly view me as an ideal – or even worthy – role model.  I talk a tough game about women ruling the world but in reality, my lawn doesn’t get mowed and my oil doesn’t get changed unless my husband does it.  And at the same time I have never expected HIM to clean a toilet.  Worse, way back in the day I was secretly gleeful when I first became pregnant, knowing (but not telling) I was not  planning on returning to my job in corporate America at the conclusion of my maternity leave.

Because of this life choice, naturally my husband and I have been precariously treading the swell of financial uncertainty that comes with one (his) major paycheck (and for me, odds-and-ends-part-time jobs) ever since.  While we feel victorious at having kept our creditors at bay all these years, it appears somewhere along the way my daughter must have started paying attention.  My life apparently seems easy to her and I find that a bit unsettling. I can’t help but think my own existence may be a study in feministic irony simply due to the cards I’ve shown her.  With all the mixed messages I’m sending her I very well may be considered a faux feminist, or at the very least, a somewhat conflicted one.

Good grief.  I can hardly blame her.

I’ve tried to show my daughter strength when it comes to men.   I’ve pooh-poohed the relevance of silly school-age boyfriends and rolled my eyes with her at the mere mention of middle school romantic melodrama.  “So unimportant,” I smirk.  “Who needs ‘em?” I mock.   I even announce publicly (and okay, often) that I would leave her father the minute Keith Urban or Sawyer from “LOST” walked through the front door.  I drill in a sharp mantra:  Be independent; no one needs a man for happiness yet I myself have been happily and deeply embedded in a twenty-five year relationship with her father – my husband – since college. Interesting paradigm, no?

            I’ve also made it a lifelong point of extolling the virtues of pulling oneself up by her own bootstraps because my own mother’s strength through despair had a profound effect on me yet to date, my daughter hasn’t been privy to many hardships.  While it may have been impossible for my own parents to disguise the trauma within their marriage, it certainly has been easier for me.  The daily financial strains that besiege us are thoughtfully and purposely kept hidden and our children are none the wiser.  They see two cars in the driveway and pizza on Fridays and money for field trips and all is well to them.  I truly believed shielding her from misfortune would alleviate some undue angst but now I’m thinking -- I couldn’t have been more wrong.

On days when she acts insufferably entitled (which I am convinced is a growing generational trait) I silently curse her blissful naiveté and wish I could summon up the kahunas to shove a bank statement in her face.  I worry that the purposeful absence of family stress will be as detrimental to my daughter’s sense of self as it was a positive catalyst of strength to my own.  How’s that for a paradox?

            I often tell her she can accomplish anything she sets her mind to.  I encourage her to be unafraid of failure and to laugh in the face of defeat and rejection.  The irony of my convictions is palpable:  her assessment of my own inadequacies reveals a less-than-pleasing mix of condescension and frustration.  “Why haven’t you written a book yet?” she’ll ask.  And further, “You keep talking about it but you’ve never even tried.”  Ouch.  The contradiction is biting.   Have I mentioned she is brilliant?

            As my daughter and I continue to navigate life lessons and the fine lines of distinction (sexy or slutty….spiteful or sarcastic….love or lust),  I can only hope my do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do hypocrisy is only glaringly hypocritical…. to me.  If I am, in fact,  sending mixed messages to her I am hoping I might very well be teaching her what matters most in those messages:  (sorta like) “definitely wear high heels .… it makes a stronger statement when kicking someone in the ass.”

            So allow me to pause here and get back to that book. 

-- Tina Drakakis