By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston
I am to be a wall of strength for my teen
daughter. I read this amazing piece of advice in a well circulated Huff Post
blog several months ago.
The idea of the be a
wall movement stems from the fact that being a teenage girl sucks (almost
as much as trying to figure out how to raise one). Teens rage because they experience copious amounts of pressure,
both real and perceived.
When they rage, we parents need to suppress our knee-jerk emotional
responses of anger and hurt remaining calm and sympathetic instead. We need to
be steadfast in our unwavering love and support even if it means we bite our tongues so hard they bleed.
We must recognize that their yelling and swearing and
stomping is not really directed at us, it’s just life in general. Being a wall
of strength and security for them gives them one thing in their life that they can
rely on. It gives them the stability to
deal with all the other crap.
I shared this article with my husband. He appreciated the
sentiments so much that now we use that phrase, be the wall, in whispers when we see the other sinking into the abyss
of fury and frustration caused by our
brilliant and beautiful daughter’s transformation into that hormonal teenaged
monster that darkens our days from time to time.
Be the wall he
says with an ironic look on his face as my
daughter snarls at me because I dared to ask her how she did on her Chem test.
Just yesterday, I made the rookie mistake of saying, “Good
morning. How are you today” to my fifteen-year-old. This kindness caused instantaneous eye rolls and a snotty head toss
accompanied with the tight reply, “fine.” She stomped away and did not speak to
me again. My husband was not around so I
chanted to myself, be the wall.
I often hear or recite this line as I make many mistakes
like telling her she looks “cute in that top” or I am “proud of her A+ grade
average” or that maybe she should “wear pants and not underwear to school.” (Ok,
I get that one, but leggings are not pants and anything with a cotton crotch is
underwear. Just saying.)
Be the wall.
Today, when I inquired as to why she randomly shouted a profane
exclamation, because I was genuinely concerned, she muttered under her breath
“shut-up.” This is one of those moments when my be the wall metaphor crumbles. Rather than being a wall I kind of
want to push her into a wall (just saying).
In those moments, I imagine myself being a decrepit, ancient
wall that cannot handle the weight of her need, of her displaced anger and
frustration. I crumble and then disintegrate, inadvertently crushing her.
When this happens, I
look to my husband to be the Mason. Like a super hero who wears painters
pants and a canvas ball cap with a trowel in one hand and a chisel in the
other. Maybe instead of changing into his superhero clothes in a phone-booth he
pops into a cement mixer.
 |
| My Superhero Mason |
When I explode into a million pieces of hurt, angry,
incensed, confused, needy, and loving shards that smother my daughter in her
needy emotionally irrational state, he must swoop in with his magic bonding
agent and rebuild our egos and mend our fractured feelings. He must use his words
to smooth us over and make us whole and strong. I cannot afford to be condemned
because as much as I want to crush her snotty attitude, I must be there to protect and shield her from the hurts of the world
until she is ready to be her own wall.
My mason is a hero
with many talents. Sometimes it is as simple as him changing the subject.
Sometimes he defends me. Sometimes he reminds me to consider that she is tired
or hormonal. Sometimes he just removes one of us the moment. Sometimes I just
need to whisper to my Mason hero that I want to crush her and we laugh as we
chant in unison, be the wall.
My daughter is amazing and I just want to love her, to talk
to her, to know her, to help her, to comfort her. At times, it feels like she
just wants to cling to me and as she grips and claws at my aging and weakening
frame, I try to shore myself up knowing that she is not trying to hurt me she’s just trying to keep herself
together.
I remember being her age. I remember wanting a wall, and not having one. The circumstances of
my parents’ divorce necessitated that I be my own wall or to rely on my equally
broken friends to be my wall.
I want my daughter to know that I am here for her, that I
love her, that I am proud of her, that I am excited for all the possibilities
her future holds. The older she gets the more she opens-up to me, the more she seems
to recognize and appreciate our support.
Perhaps we are not going to be so fragile too much longer.
Maybe I have patched my crumbling wall
well enough that I can withstand her immense need. She is clinging to me
less often. She has found her own strength and relies on it more and more.
Mothers and daughters
have complicated relationships. I envy my husband’s relationship with my
daughter. Maybe I understand her emotions too much. Maybe I know how hard it is
to be a girl growing into a woman. Maybe I expect too much of her too soon. I
want to have the simple, light-hearted, bantering relationship she has with her
dad, but it is too hard for me to let up and let go. The door to independence
is getting too close too fast.
Is she ready? Did I teach her enough? Can I be sure she won’t cling to the wrong walls, the ones covered
in poison ivy if I am not available, when I let her walk through the gateway to
adulthood?
Just like when she climbed her first tree or sat on the edge
of a wall that guards hikers from the precipice, my body tingles with fear and
worry. In those moments, I was right there ready and able to pull her out and
drag her to safety or catch her if she fell. I won’t be there at college or at
her first job or when she moves into her first apartment. The gravity of my duty to let her go weighs heavily on me. I am
glad my husband is my wall and my mason because in a few years I will need
both.
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