Drama in the Subdivision

 9/25/11

When you live in the ‘burbs of the state capitol, drama comes in many forms.  When one has a ten-year-old girl in the house, it can be especially unpleasant.  Take homework, for instance.  Getting her to do it can be murder.  It comes with whining, protests, shouting, violent stabbing of the paper with an abused pencil, more shouting (this time from Mama) and a whole lot of wasted energy.

Calgon, take me away.

When I got home from work on Friday, the drama was in the air so thick I needed a chainsaw to cut through it.  The first alarm went off in my brain when I saw my child with two neighbor girls in the driveway.  I remember what it was like to be that age.  I remember the games girls play and three is not a good number.

For those readers who don’t have daughters, let me just say you’re missing out on something.  Boys can be mean, can bully, pull pranks on one another and make things lively at home, but they got nothing on girls. 

Girls are sneaky.  Girls are cruel.  An odd number of girls spells disaster.

So, there were three little girls in my drive.  They were playing, and on the outside, everything looked good, but I knew better.  Then they all headed off to one of their houses down the street.  My first inclination was to stop them, but a mother has to let her child learn about reality, even if she knows the outcome.

Less than ten minutes later, our little princess came back.  She was crying, told us she felt so bad.  One of the other girls told her she wanted to play with the other without our princess.  When princess objected she was told to “get the f*&% out of here”.  As a mother, I saw red.  I wanted to tear the potty-mouthed girl a new one.  I wanted to confront her mother and ask what kind of home she was running.

Instead, I put my arms around my shaking child in an effort to lend comfort.  The two children in question have done this sort of thing before.  My child is not the only victim.  And the two girls aren’t the only ones to do this sort of thing.  And, let’s face it, my child is no angel in this regard.  I’m sure she’s done the same thing.  It’s a girl thing—odd man (or girl) out.  I know this and do everything I can to make her feel better.

It didn’t help, of course.  She was heart-broken.  My husband was in a rage.  My wiggly heart began to do a dance in my chest.  There are many different kinds of stress, but at the base of each type is the same real cause:  The mind’s power to override the body’s urge to beat the living crap out of someone.  I was in full stress mode.

The girls came back to retrieve a bicycle left behind in the previous exodus.  My very Italian husband, in full vendetta mode, stomped through the door.  Oh, he was going to take care of this.

My heart flipped.  I reached out a hand to grab him but missed.  I yelled for him to come back.  Then that little monster in the back of my brain—that naughty little voice we all have—chuckled with evil glee.  It said to let him have the child.  I almost smiled before shaking myself and holding my daughter back.

I couldn’t hear what he said, but he opened a new can of worms.  He only yelled at one of the girls, the one who used such foul language on his darling daughter.  Said child went home in tears.  I knew it would only be a matter of minutes.

I was right.  It was twenty minutes and I got a message on-line from her mother.  I cringed when I saw her name.  I wanted to clobber the man of the house.  I might still do it on pure principle.

It seems her child wanted to move away, quit her current school and live with her father.  She was humiliated and hurt.

I wrote back that I had the same issue at home with a little girl in anguished tears over someone she thought was her friend using such bad language and chasing her away.  I apologized for my husband’s behavior.  I told her if I had been the one confronting the situation, I would have had the same conversation with the child’s mother and not the child.

There’s always the hope that such a statement would put an end to the discussion.  My daughter said she felt bad because she didn’t want to get anyone in trouble and that Daddy probably scared the girl.  I smiled and said she got off easy.  She’s lucky she didn’t have to face me. 

Princess’s eyes got huge.  “Yeah, Mom.  You’re way more scary.”

My point was made.

And I got another message from the angry mother down the street.  She was not mollified and she was not happy.  I pulled the heart condition card.

Yeah, that’s right.  I did it. 

I told her how I’d had a recent heart attack, how my doctor wanted me to avoid all stress, but that I was doing everything I could to resolve the situation.  My monitor had gone off twice, the monitoring company had called and my head was pounding, but I was there to help her get through this.  It was all true, but really not something I wanted to share with the neighborhood. 

And end to the matter was found.  She told me she was willing to help with anything I needed.  Kind of her, seeing as our children were at war and my husband was acting as a five-star general on the opposing side. 

I have one rule about kids.  I never get involved in their battles.  I’m there to patch the wounds, bake cookies and make Kool-Aid.  Beyond that, I don’t have any part in it.  Children have to learn about the social pecking order on their own, or they grow up miserable and unable to cope.  I think it’s harder on the parents than the children, but we have to let them learn on their own.