This could be my shortest post yet… because there aren’t many. There’s one sided chatter my end, and if I’m lucky,  the odd aggrieved I dunno, but mostly not even that…

I’m not blind to the effects that puberty is having on her. Pesky oestrogen is having a field day, causing utter mayhem and pandemonium.  Metamorphosis from girl to woman is long, uncomfortable, and scary. You’d think the internet would be full of supportive co-sufferers motivating each other to hang in there because it’ll be OK in the end. But of course, it’s not. Instead it’s full of perfect teens with unblemished skin and sleek hair and long but never gangly limbs. There are make up tutorials, hair tutorials, nail art tutorials and those are probably the least harmful. It’s hard to even comprehend that there a gazillion normal but freaked out mid-transformation victims of puberty-carnage out there, glumly watching the lucky few who seem to get through it unscathed. P!nk wrote a song about the utter misery of that period in which she tries to tell her 13 year old self that it’ll all be OK, even though it’s a living nightmare for a while. I’ve made my 13 year old daughter listen to it but when you’re in crisis mode, you tend not to believe anyone who tells you it’ll pass.

Not P!nk, certainly not your mother; because no-one can possibly understand what it feels like to be you right now. Obviously she’s right, we can’t know precisely; but equally, she’s wrong because we’ve all been there, and we do remember how dreadful it was. I should add that being a 13 year old boy wasn’t a great deal of fun for first-born son or middle child either because a mega surplus of testosterone will seriously mess with your body and mind. 

Being told that it’ll pass is not terribly reassuring though. How many times have I said that to both pregnant and labouring women. I may be right (thankfully I usually am, the pain/discomfort/growth spurt/pregnancy weirdness does pass, it’s just that it would be so much better if I could be so much more specific about the time frame). I wish! I am sure that Only Daughter will emerge like a gorgeous butterfly but right now she’s in chrysalis mode so she’s kinda having to shut herself off for a wee while.

As coping strategies go, it has some advantages. She cannot see you and you cannot see her. She should be left alone to complete the transformation since there is no meaningful way to help. Her pain is unique. It would be perfect if YouTube didn’t sneak into the protective chrysalis with her, forcing her to watch all the emerging butterflies who spent 2 seconds in their cocoon just adding a couple of minor finishing touches to bodies that were never ever caterpillars in the first place. Because  it isn’t fair, but for a lucky few it seems that easy. I suspect it isn’t. It never is.

But how long is too long?

When does the discomfort/pain become abnormal? When should I break into the cocoon instead of simply keeping it warm and clean and dry? The cocoon may not be perfect but I’d need to be pretty sure I can offer something better before gate- crashing. Midwives keep a close eye out for babies who maybe aren’t doing so well in their mother’s womb, and then difficult decisions have to be made about when to deliver those babies. It is understood that the womb is best, except when it isn’t. Clear as mud? I thought so!  So we monitor carefully, ready to jump in at a moment’s notice, and this does, on balance, save lives. The flip side is that some babies will be delivered sooner than strictly necessary and many mothers will experience unbridled stress and fear due to being counselled that their body cannot keep their baby safe. That really sucks, especially when you’ve adopted every single recommended lifestyle change and then some! But it’s not about the mother. Well it is, in a roundabout way, because the mother really does want what’s best for her baby.

So there’s me, monitoring as best I can, wondering if/when I should call in the experts who might diagnose something more than routine adolescence. Depression? Autism? Anxiety? Body dysmorphia? A combination of all those things? I’m counting the smiles (fingers of one hand, hard to lose count) replaying the conversations, analysing possible meaning, anything that might suggest hope, or worse, despair. Analysing her as yet irregular cycle, anticipating the bad days as much as possible. I don’t have much to work with, and it turns out I don’t have the psychic bond with my child that every mother feels she should have. It shouldn’t be such a surprise, she’s my third, but it surprised me each time with the boys when they stopped being children but weren’t grown ups…when they realised that they were their own selves; that this was both good and terrifying. Both times I was pretty powerless against the terror; both times I failed to convince them that it would pass. They each worked it out, eventually. Individually. Both times it was hard to watch from the sidelines. Each time feeling that the would-be umbilical cord of psychic connection disappeared long before I was ready. There was so much I hadn’t told them (I hadn’t wanted to scare them), and now they couldn’t hear me. You’d be ready the third time, you told yourself. You’d strengthen the cord, and you’d add extra lines of communication. Two way radio. WiFi and 5G. You’d warn her about the trials ahead, but you’d make sure she’d be fully equipped with self love, a dash of resilience, and all the correct information, acquired throughout a long and innocent childhood… yeah, right! The good information was quickly replaced with rubbish,  the self love dissolved in seconds, the resilience is there but it’s up against so very much. The pseudo-cord was as useless as ever. The 5G doesn’t work, the WiFi is temperamental and mostly used to connect to Spotify and YouTube if she has any screen time left after WhatsApp; and if she can hear my chatter over the radio waves, she’s certainly not transmitting much in return. Epic fail… I’m right back on the sidelines. It may well be where I belong, but I don’t like it. But then again, my midwife training predisposed me to take a watchful waiting approach when the kids weren’t well, confident that (with some basic TLC and regular calpol) it would pass. Reasonably confident that I’d know if/when medical intervention was necessary. I was probably lucky, but it did work.  They did get sick, for sure, but they’d bounce back soon enough. And I was never a helicopter parent. If my kids forgot their gym stuff or their homework (assuming they’d done it) I never got it for them mostly because that school run was plenty bad enough twice a day, but also because I didn’t think I’d be doing them any favours long term.  So yes, sidelines are fine up to a point but you want to be able to send down the rescue harness from that helicopter when they are not. Even though that would be so embarrassing… So that’s me. Watching. MedEvac chopper at the ready.

We are lucky, there’s so much help out there for when the smile count drops and the resilience factor is simply overwhelmed by the would-be simple activities of daily living. Like getting up every morning and facing each difficult new day. Deciding what to wear. Getting to school.  Acting cool and care-free for 8 hours.  Collapsing in a heap after maintaining a facade of insouciance for 8 hours. Luckily, there are ways to dip into the resilience reservoir. One can whisper a gazillion sweet nothings to the cat while stroking her soft fur and listening to her purr her comforting wisdom (it’s a fact: even though I don’t speak cat, I can tell she’s worth listening to). One can also immerse oneself in K-pop music or indulge in some K drama. One can draw (and use technology to animate) mythical creatures blessed with all the superpowers that one dreams of possessing. Having a couple of close girl friends with whom you can be your true imperfect self is another resilience boosting strategy. Whether or not that will suffice remains to be seen.

I am grateful that I can call in the experts if things deteriorate. But I’m reluctant to label Only Daughter with a syndrome/condition that might follow her throughout her life unless it’s absolutely necessary. I understand that such labels, or diagnoses can be beneficial. It can unlock specialist help which might make life that bit easier. But… being an NHS midwife I know how bad she’d have to be before she’d qualify for any kind psychological assistance. And thankfully, I do know she’s not that bad. Whatever the diagnosis might be, the prescription remains boringly common-sensical. I just have to be patient. Make sure she gets her sleep and her greens. The odd breathe of fresh air. I have to learn the lyrics to BTS songs. Watch some K dramas. Make myself interesting to her, and get the occasional invite into her cocoon. Keep those lines of communication open just in case she is minded to use them. Coax her creativity even if I can’t always claim to understand her animations. Even if she does spend more time creating these than I consider reasonable. Mandatory non-cocoon time can be limited to school, family dinnertimes and clarinet lessons. Since my efforts to help with (boring, too often neglected) school work are inadmissible (apparently I suck at that though I beg to differ!) I have cunningly outsourced the problem to some very wonderful people who have the patience of angels (and accept the cocoon, managing to work around it). This doesn’t get me kudos points but it does reduce the friction (it allows me to keep my cocoon visitation rights) while ensuring homework gets done.

Baby steps for her, big deep breaths for me. This too shall pass.