I’ve reached a point in my life where I’ve mostly become irrelevant when it comes to my fourteen year-old daughter. It doesn’t help that I had Isa when I was 42, which pretty much makes me a geriatric mother. Now, that is a scary thought for both of us. These days, I’m lucky if she even talks to me. It’s not that she’s mean, or rude (well, sometimes she’s rude)—it’s mostly that she’s indifferent about what I have to say. She will speak to me when she needs a new dress for the homecoming dance, or to tell me she has absolutely no shoes, and can we please run out to Rite Aid because her is skin is so dry that if she doesn’t GET THAT PARTICULAR FACE CREAM RIGHT NOW her face may fall off.
Mostly, what I’m having trouble with is her vernacular. I often have to concentrate really hard to understand what she’s talking about. Honestly, if I hear her say low-key, legit, or chillax one more time, I may scream. And don’t get me started on the memes:
Scene One (of many)
Isa: laughing uproariously with her phone five inches from her face.
Me: (smiling) “What’s so funny?” (This question is usually asked three times before there is any verbal response.)
Isa: “You wouldn’t get it, Mom.”
Me: “Yes, I will. Just show me.”
Isa: (rolling her eyes) shows me a disjointed video of something that moves by so fast I can’t even register what it is. I watch it three times before handing the phone back to her.
Me: (frowning) “You’re right. I don’t get it.”
Isa: (letting out an almost imperceptive sigh while continuing to scroll through Instagram) “Tol ya.”
Now, I don’t mean to diss my kid—(is “diss” still acceptable?) She’s actually an extremely lovely child who gets good grades, has a robust social life, and is wittily hilarious when we do have the occasional convo (hey, give me a little credit—I’m trying.) And if I’m lucky, she’ll open up and actually tell me what’s going on in her life. I’ve found that the best way to get her to talk is when we walk the dogs or ride in the car together. Initially, if I just shut up and don’t ask questions—the conversation will start to flow. Before long, we are legit talking to each other, and it is da bomb.
Maybe, the next time we talk, I’ll throw in a little of my own 1970’s slang. I’ll say that something’s bad when I really mean good. I’ll end each description with to the max or tell her that the situation is totally bogus and that dude is bitchen.
Then again, maybe I’ll just be quiet and let her do the talking. . .
Isa, then. . .
And now. . .
Allegro non tanto 