You Don’t Understand What It’s Like to Be Me

“You don’t understand what it’s like to be me!” shouted my

nearly 12 year old daughter when I told her she could not
sleep on the couch and instead had to sleep in her bed. Of
course I don’t. Just like I don’t understand what it’s like to 
be her nearly 13 year old brother or her 15 year old sister
or her 16 year old brother….or the 64 year old doorman to
our building. 
I understand that she’s beginning her journey through “Put-
upon-ville” and she won’t arrive to “Finally-got-a-clue City”
until she’s already visited “Whaddya-mean-I-can’t-wear-
make-up Falls” and “But-all-my-friends-are-doing-it-burg.”
There’s like a whole road map of teen angst that she’s yet
to travel. Yeah, and I’m so looking forward to it. That and
a root canal sans anesthesia. 
I can’t blame her for my boredom with her particular road
trip through Hell. It was MY choice to have 3 teenagers 
before her and another one after her. I guess THIS would
be the reason for that whole “spacing” concept when it comes
to having children. Yeah. The light bulb finally came on and 
I get it now…a day late and a dollar short.
But that’s fine. I’m in it now. And I’ll be grateful when it 
passes and they’ve all….errrrrrrrrr…..WE’VE all made it 
through the teen years and the whole family has become 
human again. And then I’ll start planning my revenge. 
I’ll take lots of vitamins and herbs, like echinacea and garlic
and St. John’s Wort. I’ll eat right and exercise and live to 
be 147 years old and get Alzheimer’s and wear adult diapers
and dribble on my chin when I eat. And they’ll all be argu-
ing about whose turn it is to take Mom this month. HA!
And in my head I’ll be laughing the last laugh and I’ll tell 
each one in turn, “You don’t understand what it’s like to be
me!”
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