My daughter will turn 12 in June. We have a lot of tween meltdowns. We have difficulty communicating sometimes.
This morning I stepped outside to write in my journal. I’ve been working a lot of extra hours, making my part-time retail job a full-time one.
So I needed some peace and sun.
My daughter approached me one paragraph later. She wore her mopey face. I asked what was wrong.
For the sake of brevity, I will skip the pleading and cajoling that went into getting her to reveal her complaint.
My friend Gayle had said to her that her mother always said you didn’t buy something until you had the money for it.
“I have a savings account,” she says, “and it has a lot of money in it, but I can’t touch it.”
I explain to her she can touch it, but that money is for big purchases: summer camp, someday when she wants a car or needs a security deposit for her first apartment.
I also ask, “what are you pining for?”
“Well, it’s stupid,” she says, “but I told you months ago that I wanted a new doll and you said you would consider it and you haven’t said anything.”
Months is an exaggeration, for the record. The doll in question is a $10 Draculaura Monster High Doll.
Now I know I bought her that doll and a Frankie Stein doll as the focus of her Easter basket. But she’s in full drama and feeling dejected.
I go in the house and get the shoe box containing her goodies. I haven’t wrapped them or retrieved her literal basket. I hand her the box.
“Should you chose to open that, it’s the contents of your Easter basket. There will be nothing for Sunday. It’s your call.”
She opened it.
She found the dolls.