The Apple Doesn’t Fall…
When my mother wished upon me a child who was exactly like me—I was in the seventh grade when she said this in frustration—I never dreamed that her wish would come true. But I learned the hard way that history repeats itself.
I wasn’t really a bad kid, just spirited. I attended a Catholic grade school where makeup and perfume/cologne were taboo for female (and male, for that matter) students. But I got around these restrictions…sort of. For my scent I dabbed vanilla—the brown stuff for baking—behind my ears. I wasn’t wearing perfume or cologne! The nuns, however, considered my scent addition to be somewhat devious. My mother was called for still another visit to join me in the principal’s office. (What amazes me now is how revolutionary I was back then…I knew, long before today’s perfume manufacturers, that vanilla was an enticing scent!)
I didn’t get away with vanilla and I didn’t have any luck with my lipstick substitute. One day I painted my lips with Mercurochrome (for you youngsters it was a red solution that used to be used as an antiseptic on cuts). I was caught by a nun and sent to the principal’s office. It wasn’t until I lied and said that I put it on my lips because I had a bunch of cuts that my mother was called!
There are a number of other infractions that I could report, but space is limited. Let’s just say I was more spirited than authority figures would have liked!
Then I was blessed with “mini-me,” my daughter Emily. She towed the line until she was in middle school (just like her mom). In the sixth grade she discovered boys, one boy specifically. One night she slipped out of the house after midnight to meet up with this guy, who was her senior by two years. Her absence caused immense fear since her dad and I didn’t know where she was or with whom. We were just about ready to call the police when she tried to sneak back in. She thought we would still be asleep. I was so upset that my husband suggested that we handle her punishment in the morning.
The ax came down on her the next day. I came up with a punishment that would best assure there would be no repeat escapades. For one week, she would have to wear the very same outfit everyday to school. She could wash and dry it, but there could be no substitutions. As she was still groaning over what she labeled as “ridiculous” and “horrible,” part two was announced. “And every day for the week, I will come and eat lunch with you at school,” I told her. “Obviously,” I told her, “you haven’t grown up and still need your mommy!” Her groans, tears and threats of running away for good fell on mute ears.
Now to a middle-school student having to wear the same outfit everyday was mortifying; having “your mommy” eating lunch with you at school was sheer death. But that’s what I did…and it worked. With the principal’s approval, “Mommy” became a lunchroom regular. Emily knew that bad behavior would not be tolerated, and, luckily, her friends and the other students learned that having me around was fun. (I even made a gigantic cake for my going-away party at the end of the week!)
My punishment has become part of the folklore at that middle school. Other parents over the years have remarked about my bravery. (Middle school isn’t necessarily a place most adults want to be!) Administrators and staff still talk about my creative way of handling a problem. Emily, now that she’s 23, has forgiven me and, better yet, says what a good mother I was and am! This apple of mine may have fallen close to the tree, and what I learned the hard way as a teenager made it easier for me to be a better mother for my teen.