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| This, of course, is Sierra, my 15 year old daughter. She is so much like I was it's scary. |
The other night, Sierra, my 15 year old daughter, traipsed in at 4 in the morning, well past curfew.
"Where have you been?" I asked.
"Out," she replied, rather flippantly.
"You are going to tell me where you were --"
"Or what?"
"Tell me where you were, dammit!"
"None of your business!"
"It is my business, Sierra, I'm your mother!"
"I told you, mom, it's none of your business."
"As long as you're a minor child, it is surely my business."
I got a flashback right then and there, to my days as a wannabe juvenile delinquent, brought home by the cops in my short skirts and flat-heels, back to the days when my mother couldn't tell me a damned thing.
Back in the days when I used to glare at my mother and tell her to kiss off.
Now, thirty years later, I've got my own daughter, pink hair and bad attitude and all, who's basically telling me to kiss off.
"Sierra, you're skipping school, you're beating up other kids, you stay out all night. I'm sick of all this, I'm sick of the hair, I'm sick of the clothes, I'm sick of the nasty attitude toward this family. You break curfew one more time, missy, or it's off to reform school like your brother, and I don't have to wait for the court to put you there."
"So. I don't care. Whatever."
"Sierra, I want to know what's going on with you. Why are you acting like this? Just tell me, why? Where is the little girl I knew?"
