GROWING UP, GROWING DOWN

"Becca you’re too old for me to have to set this kind of consequence. I’m getting no cooperation, and I’m sick of you blowing me off. I will lock you out of your room if you don’t remove those stains from the carpet and clear those damned dishes glasses and dishes you’ve been accumulating.

"I know this sounds weird, Mom, but the threat of locking me out makes me feel good—like, I’m still a kid."

Slumped down in the passenger seat with her headphones tilted backwards, Becca’s shy, sweet smile revealed true delight. Having watched, since puberty’s vicious onslaught, Becca’s surly efforts to look and act older, this shift into the low gear of a young teen, surprised me.

As she listened to rap music, I absorbed myself in self-doubt—once again. Had I, in previous instances, set clear boundaries? Had I enforced them? Did I choose consequences that worked? Was I so worn down by her flaunting of my efforts that I looked the other way? Trip 1000 down memory lane yielded the same results as trips 999, 998 and previous visits—no clear answers, some guilt, and renewed frustration.

But this time, now eighteen years old, facing into being locked out of her bedroom, Becca actually did clean her room. Furthermore, she used up two bottles of carpet cleaning solution, filled a dishwasher beyond capacity with moldy, smelly dishes and hauled five, 36-gallon garbage bags of dirty laundry two floors down to the garage. She even managed to create sufficient visible floor space to run the vacuum cleaner.

I’ve tried to grock this unexpected change in my daughter. Has she graduated from being a disturbingly self-destructive kid into a normal drive-you-nuts teenager who can respond to effective consequences? Are boundaries finally providing her the comfort and safety I’ve always hoped for? Or, shall I simply celebrate this as an isolated moment of grace?

My daughter, oft complaining about being 18, and the expectations that brings with it, called me, "Mommy," today. "Mommy, would you fix me something to eat. I’m hungry." Her, "Mommy" was so sweet, I got past my usual, "You’re 18 years old and perfectly capable of making something for yourself," attitude.

Now graduated from high school, working two part time jobs, still obsessed with boys that set my teeth on edge--being 18 is to her, the kiss of death. I counted the days till her 18^th birthday. Now, legally I finally have the clout to say, "Out, I’ve had it!"

Is this why she’s beginning to respect my wishes? Or amidst her ripening maturity, is she allowing herself to make up for three lost years while in treatment? Now that she’s a high school graduate, she wishes she were still in school. Working two part time jobs feels overwhelmingly responsible.

While my "hurry up and let me live my own life," daughter relives the years she missed while attending therapeutic boarding schools I get to relive some of that time, too. Does this mean we’re really healing? Time will tell.

One thing for sure, I never thought my sophisticated 18 year old would ever call me, "Mommy," again.