Stacie Sherman

I dropped Bree off at sleepaway camp today, climbed in the car and cried. Partly because I missed her already. Partly because I worried about leaving her for three long weeks. But most of the tears came because I knew that I could not wait to drive out of that parking lot.

It has not been an easy few months. For the most part, it has been good with Bree. She has been happy and playful, loving and giggly. But these teenage hormones are wreaking their havoc on her, and on me. They are making me question my patience and my strength – something I thought I had mastered a long, long time ago.

The first sign of Sybil showed her ugly head several weeks ago as I took Bree and her brother to the mall, for dinner and some shopping. I made the mistake, though, of switching things up. Usually when we do our mall trips, we eat first and shop after. This time, I don’t know what I was thinking. It was a bit early for dinner, and I just had something I had to return. So I decided to go to the store first.

Bree was not happy with me. After throwing herself down on the mall floor twice, I gave up the idea of returning clothes. I got her up and we headed toward the restaurant.

The damage, though, already had been done. Bree could not snap out of it. She was screaming and unhappy. Without thinking I stepped with her on the down escalator that led to the restaurant, my son standing two steps behind us. Bree chose that moment to unleash her fury on me, punching me with both arms so hard, so repeatedly I almost lost my balance. I remember looking at my son, and he had a bewildered look on my face, like he didn’t know whether to step down and try to stop her. I’m so glad he didn’t.

Luckily I was able to get control of my balance, get control of her enough to not fall. But that moment shook me to my core. When we got to the bottom of the escalator,  I grabbed her hand and walked right past the restaurant, outside, toward the parking lot and toward our car. By this point, she was in full super meltdown mode. Somehow she pulled loose from me and ran into the street. By the grace of God, she did not get hit by a car.  I got a hold of her, got her in the car and headed toward home.

“I’m sorry, buddy,’’ I told my son. “No restaurant tonight.’’ “It’s OK, Mom,’’ he said, covering my shaking hand with his own.

My daughter, though, was not done yet. As we drove toward home, she continued to freak out, now banging on my car window with her fist so hard I feared she would shatter the glass. So I rolled the window down and kept it down for the 20-minute ride home.

Twenty minutes later she was happy and smiling.

I however, was sick to my stomach. My life had flashed  before my eyes. Her life had flashed before my eyes. When had I lost control of her?  When had she become stronger than me? Was she too strong for me to handle? Was I in over my head?

A few weeks later, she was a bit cranky one night, and I thought a bath would help. It usually did. But no, not this time. As she sat in the bath, she cried and screamed, then she moved into meltdown mode, kicking her legs and punching her arms so hard the water poured over onto the floor.  I quickly got her up and out and sat her down on the closed toilet while I tried to clean up the puddles. As I was bent down, she attacked me. She clasped onto my arms with both hands, her nails digging me into so hard I could feel them leaving marks. I tried to shake her loose, to no avail, and then I had to whack her to get her to let go. She did not like that. Neither did I.

Twenty minutes later she was happy and smiling. I was sick to my stomach once again.

And then there was yesterday, Sleepaway Camp Eve. I spent it just me and my girl. We went out to lunch, and shopping, and she was happy for the most part. Then we found a new waterside park and had a nice, peaceful time there in beautiful weather. Later we came home and relaxed, and a bit later, she handed me her sandals and pulled me toward the front door, telling me without words she wanted to go on one of our walks. So we had a long, beautiful stroll up the path and around the nearby park. We even stopped under a big shady tree and lay down on the cool grass. Her head rested on my arm, her eyes stared at mine, as we listened to her favorite music, held hands and enjoyed each other’s silent company.

Later, I decided to take her to her favorite restaurant, just mother and daughter night. We ordered our usual. She had her favorite soda, I had my favorite glass of wine. We split the salad bar and a chicken, broccoli and pasta alfredo dish. She ate the ham and the pasta salad from the salad bar, I ate the veggies. She ate the pasta, I ate the chicken and broccoli. That’s how we roll.

We sat on the same side of the booth, her in the inside. My arm around her, she watched her videos while I scoured my phone for coupons at Target, our next planned stop.

And then she started to show the very early signs of a meltdown, which was strange, because I don’t think she has ever melted down at her favorite restaurant. But I asked for a box, and the check. I had a coupon on my phone but as I tried to find it, her whining got louder and she started pushing me to stand up so we could leave. So I said F the coupon, handed the waitress my credit card. Bree kept pushing me to stand up, so I did, figuring she really wanted to stand up and stretch. Instead, she lay face down in the aisle, on the disgusting restaurant carpet, and cried, just as the waitress returned with my card.

I sat down on the floor next to Bree so I could rub her back and calm her while I tried to sign the credit-card form and get the F out of there. I looked up at the family sitting at the table behind us, a young couple and their cute young perfectly normal daughters. We were practically sitting next to them at this point. I caught the father’s eye, we smiled at each other, I told him we’d be out of there shortly.

Once again, on the ride home, she tried to break my windows. So for the whole 12-minute car ride home I drove home with all the windows down. The wind felt nice.

Today, I left a little early to take Bree to sleepaway camp, after a slightly cranky morning. I stayed a little longer than usual, filled with guilt because I knew I was eager to leave. I made her bed, unpacked her suitcase, plugged in her DVD player, gave her some snacks. Then I kissed her twice, told her I loved her and left her there. She did not cry.

As I sit here hours later, my thoughts are consumed with her. Is she happy? Does she miss me? Has she smacked a counselor yet? Will she sleep through the night? Wet the bed?

These past few months, there have been several days where I have questioned my fitness to be her mother. To raise her in my home. She is now taller than me, weighs more than me, is perhaps stronger than me. She has shown me hormonal mood swings that frighten the hell out of me.

And still, already I miss her. Happy or sad, calm or violent, she is my baby girl.

I should be relaxing. But I want to get this out of my system. This post has been weeks in the making.  And now Bree is hopefully in some very capable hands for the next 21 days as I attempt to catch up on my sleep, find my sanity and my strength and talk myself off the ledge.