You Don't Understand What It's Like to Be Me

"You don't understand what it's like to be me!" shouted my

nearly 12 year old daughter when I told her she could not

sleep on the couch and instead had to sleep in her bed. Of

course I don't. Just like I don't understand what it's like to 

be her nearly 13 year old brother or her 15 year old sister

or her 16 year old brother....or the 64 year old doorman to

our building. 

I understand that she's beginning her journey through "Put-

upon-ville" and she won't arrive to "Finally-got-a-clue City"

until she's already visited "Whaddya-mean-I-can't-wear-

make-up Falls" and "But-all-my-friends-are-doing-it-burg."

There's like a whole road map of teen angst that she's yet

to travel. Yeah, and I'm so looking forward to it. That and

a root canal sans anesthesia. 

I can't blame her for my boredom with her particular road

trip through Hell. It was MY choice to have 3 teenagers 

before her and another one after her. I guess THIS would

be the reason for that whole "spacing" concept when it comes

to having children. Yeah. The light bulb finally came on and 

I get it now...a day late and a dollar short.

But that's fine. I'm in it now. And I'll be grateful when it 

passes and they've all....errrrrrrrrr.....WE'VE all made it 

through the teen years and the whole family has become 

human again. And then I'll start planning my revenge. 

I'll take lots of vitamins and herbs, like echinacea and garlic

and St. John's Wort. I'll eat right and exercise and live to 

be 147 years old and get Alzheimer's and wear adult diapers

and dribble on my chin when I eat. And they'll all be argu-

ing about whose turn it is to take Mom this month. HA!

And in my head I'll be laughing the last laugh and I'll tell 

each one in turn, "You don't understand what it's like to be

me!"