My 11 year old daughter is trying to kill me.

And she’s not going to REST until I do. In. Peace.
I have proof! When she read the title to this post, she asked, “How did you find out?”

Warning: After reading this, 4 out of 5 couples hoping to have kids, will change their minds. Parents of children under 10 will either attempt to stunt their offsprings’ growth or begin drinking heavily (if that isn’t already the case).

She Who Should Not Be Named has never forgiven me for the umbilical cord around the neck emergency C-section incident. Nor I her. And she blames me unilaterally for being born on Sept. 11, 2000. How was I supposed to know what would happen a year later? If I did, what would could I have done differently?

Years ago, one of her first attempts was by blunt force trauma. She rigged her stuffed elephant with magnetic feet to the freezer door and to a toaster stored above. In the morning, I went to retrieve an ice pack and BAM!

Intelligent? Yes. Creative? Yes. Effective? Not so much.

Recently, she’s upped her game. At times, I’m sure she’s trying to stop my heart.

Without getting into too much detail, out of respect for her privacy (and mine), I will only tell you that it involved copious amounts of four letter words, her DS, half vampires, the glorious Internet, a medium-loud discussion in our backyard, and deceit. Our family’s web-related troubles makes me regret all the time I’ve wasted watering this kid’s Farmville crops. I should have never given her livestock.

That was one of those times when you realize that you do not know the person across from you.  I suspected that one day this would happen…some day in her mid teens. Brian has told me that all adolescents rebel. He did. Everyone does. Except me. I waited until adulthood to become a screwup. I’m not normal. My daughter isn’t normal, so I just thought she was just like me. Well, she’s not me. She’s her and I guess that is something I have to live with.

The lies really hurt…and made me jealous. I’m can’t lie. It’s not that I don’t try. I do. I just really suck at it. I suspect I should practice more. The guilt overwhelms me. I still confess to stealing a science book in the 3rd grade and hiding it in the front yard under the pine tree. I wanted to do experiments in the privacy of my own home. The rain ruined the book before I had a chance to return it and I have been forever scarred. How can I teach my children to be honest with such a stain on my record?

And there was that one speeding ticket.

My daughter failed. She did break my heart, but my heart didn’t stop.

So, the kid moved on to non-obvious approaches. She’s been attempting to infect me with tuberculosis. “I’m not, HACK, sick.” “I, COUGH, don’ t need, COUGH, to go to the doctors.” “It’s just, HACK, phlegm.” She refuses to cover her mouth while sitting next to me and being nice.

Her trumpet convalesces in the corner.
She talks about being a lawyer. A lawyer! A lawyer!

Her bedroom door with blue painter’s tape and has been begging for packaging tape.She’s named her body parts after her favorite band members. When she tells, “Andy’s sweaty,” or, “Danny itches,” I ask no questions.

I’ve been receiving attack hugs.

She wore a dress. A t-shirt dress with shorts underneath, but a dress!

Only the people you love, have the ability to break your heart. Before Brian came into our lives, I was her sole parent. I have given her almost every single prepubescent bath. Her hair has been my enemy every day for years. The Father’s Day cards she made in school were for ME. I love her more than I can. More than she can comprehend. Unconditionally.

She’s a kid. I’ll forgive her. I may even trust her again.
One day, we’ll be laughing about this, I’m sure…

…right before she pulls the plug.



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9 thoughts on “My 11 year old daughter is trying to kill me.

  1. Hey, I’ve lived parts of this story. πŸ™‚ Hugs from one mom to another…

    Incidentally, what IS the thing with packaging tape, I thought it was just my daughter who was begging for it (it comes in florescent colors now, you know). Your daughter’s door looks pretty good though, I have to say it. πŸ˜‰


  2. I’m swimming in the same pool right now -I think I’m in the shallow end right now – I’m sure the DEEP end is coming any day! Although the other day my daughter made me a card, that I’m keeping for future fighting –that said I Love You I Love You over and over on the front, and some sweet words inside–those few precious moments are what really make it all worth while.
    BTW–my daughter has pink, blue, zebra, green, and a polk-a-dot tape piled on a shelf right now–she has no bedroom door or I’m sure it would look a lot like She Who Should Not Be Named’s =^D


  3. I dread the day my daughter turns into a tween!
    You made me laugh and cry at the same time with this post. The ending just tugged at a heartstring, I couldn’t help it… I love how you love her more than life itself.


  4. Don’t worry mama! I have two teenage boys, and a 12 year old daughter. I will tell you that my teen boys (now 17 and 14), have disappointed me, and have broken my heart many times. My 17 year old being the oldest has hurt me the most, mainly because before him, I didn’t know what the teen years would be like. Through our conflicts, I have always finished our arguments by reminding them that I love them. My 17 year old always tells me that even though he gets annoyed with me, he always feels like laughing by the way I end our moments of conflict. There have been so many times where I tell him, “You’re grounded, now go to your room and stay there until I tell you to come out!!!”, then as he turns around and stomps up the steps I always yell (in an angry voice of course, so as to not loose the feeling of the moment) “Oh, and by the way…I still love you!”. I still do that all the time and they laugh about it. I really think that it helps diffuse the argument by letting them know you are angry and mean business, but still you love them. My 17 year old has matured so much since those first initial teenage bumps, and we’re now back on the path to trust. Things will get better! πŸ™‚


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