After fifteen hours of labour and her heart stopping over five times during delivery, this little fighter emerged from my womb. One of the three triplets to survive I’ll never forget the day she came into my world, everything about her, a force to be reckoned with.
My daughter is my youngest child. Accompanying her brother of two years they both completely took my heart.
I have to admit as new Mom I fell deeply in love with raising kids.
My son made child rearing look simple, easy. That is until my daughter joined in. She was different, every single thing about her was more difficult. However, I pushed through the full two years of tears. The lack of sleep, and long nights filled with colicky cries. It is what Moms do, and whether she was more difficult or not I did not let her know she caused me more angst than her brother as a baby.
As time went on raising a Son and Daughter seemed flawless. One of each, the perfect nuclear family.
The toddler years were the same as most families. Teaching my son to potty train meant letting him run free in the backyard peeing on trees. My daughter wanted nothing more than to be like her big brother, and who was I to say she couldn’t at least try. She too decided she would master the art of peeing on trees. It didn’t go as she had planned.
So what if I was continually wiping urine off her legs, she wasn’t using a diaper. It felt like a win to me.
As they both grew to be school-aged the two of them noticed they were different from one another. Bath time becoming a little more curious. At the age of three, my daughter emerged from the bath sobbing she didn’t have a penis. Exclaiming, she needed a penis, and it wasn’t fair that her brother got to have one but she didn’t. My Son, then five, did what I now know all men to do, waved it proudly in her face saying things like, penises are the best thing in the world! I love my penis. Everyone loves my penis.
While there are challenges in raising both genders I found neither to be too excruciating until the teen years wrapped on my door with a vengeance.
With my son, there came the ABSOLUTE NEED to knock on his door before entering his room. There is no book in this world that can or will prepare for the first time you see your son with his love for his penis in his hand. None. Once that right of passage passed (traumatic and not without at least a full hour of eye bleaching), there haven’t truly been many challenges in raising my teenage son. We have smoothly transitioned to seventeen without too many cases of the eye bleaching.
My daughter, on the other hand, has pretty much turned my life upside down. Whether or not there are personality differences between my two children, it does not change the distinct contrasts in raising a daughter over a son. Especially during puberty.
My daughter came screaming into puberty. Literally.
When she discovered her hair down there, my entire house was on full alert. Out of the bath, naked, she stood in my living room pointing at her newly found lady beard. Legs spread apart and angrily pointing at her vagina, she became every woman I know. Pissed off and visceral concerning pubic hair. “What is this!?!?” she let out an emotional scream, “I hate it, it’s itchy.” And off she went slamming her feet back to her room.
All I could think was, here we go, get your shit together Mom you are in for the ride of your life.
Crashing into my life followed by the pubic hair incident was teenage shark week. I am in the throes of this hell infested week, but truth be told it hasn’t gone as planned. Actually, I don’t believe there is a way to plan for two hormonal women living under the same roof. Particularly one of the angsty hormonal teen type.
I don’t care what you may have read on this subject, I can tell you with the utmost honesty you can not prepare yourself for the moment you sync periods with your teenage daughter. Ah hell no. There is not enough chocolate in my house during, what my son might describe as the longest week ever.
While I am riding out the final days of — the communists in my fun house, she has just begun to taste the hell of menstruation.
The hormonal imbalance in my house is probably seen from outer space, or at least felt.
We are at a stand still, looking each other in the eye during war week causes a cosmic force to rain down tears and binge eating. Including angry hormonal arguments caused by nothing less than too much hair in her favourite brush.
But we are handling it as well as the opposite ends of a magnet. Which means — not at all.
The universe may start on fire due to too much menstrual anguish in one home. The chi in my house didn’t merely leave, it ran out of here faster than Usain Bolt. For one week of every month I live in a house filled with so many hormones, I am afraid the bears can smell us.
Help us, we are living in hormonal fear of bear attacks. Okay, it isn’t that bad, however, I am writing this while the world of menstruation is balanced again. Ask me next week when I feel the daggers shooting from my daughter’s eyes blaming me that she is a woman.
As my daughter and I navigate the rest of our years together syncing up our bodies in menstrual hell.
I will leave you with this…remember the moment she sobbed in the bathtub when she realised she didn’t have a penis.
I am sobbing at this exact moment, for that precise reason.
I jest, I love my daughter with all my heart. I wouldn’t trade her in for anything, well except maybe a Lindt bar during hell week.