Romeo and the Teenager

When my daughter was little, she looked up to me. She looked at me with those sparkling blue eyes and I saw curiosity and wonder, respect, and love. She's fifteen now and most of the looks I get make me wonder if I've suddenly sprouted antlers or a second head. 

Last night we went for a short hike to return a snail to its natural habitat (where we found it) after hosting it in a terrarium during the pandemic. Romeo, said snail, provided us with hours of entertainment and education. Did you know that snails love carrots and will leave an orange poop trail on the glass? Or that they sometimes pull themselves into their shells and seem dried up and dead, until one day they emerge and are sliding slowly across the glass and you are SO grateful you didn’t dump them out with the compost? This dormant state during hot, dry periods is called estivation. With the pandemic restrictions loosening and people getting back out into the world it kind of feels like we’ve all been estivating for months. I’m grateful I wasn’t thrown out with the compost, which is what my daughter would most likely do with me if she could.

Anyway, we took the snail back, to live its free and wild life. During our walk, as I’ve done her entire life, I shared some of my extensive knowledge about the plants and animals we encountered. She used to appreciate this. She used to ask questions and we’d have excited conversations about what we were seeing together. No more. Now it’s exasperated looks, one word retorts (and “word” is generous), or silence as she taps away at her phone. “You might be glad one day to know that you can identify and eat plantain and lamb’s quarters. Or that wood nettle is delicious after you cook it to remove the sting. Or that you can dig up burdock and eat the root or use it medicinally to lower blood sugar and treat colds and sore throats, among other ailments.” Well, she wasn’t glad, not today. She was annoyed. Even when I told her she might need this information after the zombie apocalypse or some other worse pandemic comes along. 

She DID, however, in her own sullen teenage way, manage to notice some pretty incredible things out in nature, even while complaining about being hot and itchy. I even saw her eyes light up and detected the hint of a smile here and there. She noticed a wasp on a railing. Then watched as it raised its wings and wondered if it was protecting something. Suddenly two more wasps appeared and went into a crevice where we decided there must be a nest. She noticed, and caught, tiny toadlets in the grass. She pointed out monarch butterflies, an egg on a milkweed leaf, a slug, dragonflies, and a scorpionfly. She noticed a muskrat in the water and watched as it swam ashore and ate reeds at the water’s edge. We crossed a trail and she was the first to see a doe and her two fawns in the golden light just after sunset.

I took pictures and tried to keep my comments, my joy, to myself because what’s the use in sharing it if it only annoys your teenager? For a little while I caught glimpses of the kid she used to be. I miss that kid.

From all outward appearances, my teenager hates me. Can’t stand the sight of me, the sound of my voice, my very existence. And that’s a hard thing for a mother to take. I know I’m not alone. I’ve had many women give me hugs or share kind words or look at me with genuine understanding and empathy. 

I was feeling pretty down as we returned Romeo, not because he was going home but because it felt like I was losing another piece of her childhood, another piece of my heart. She nestled him tenderly into a hole in a log, a spot she chose because it offered some protection and perhaps comfort. Is that what she’s looking for, I wonder? Is she pulling away from me, pushing me away from her, testing my love with all her might, somehow knowing that I will always be her true home, her place of comfort and protection? That’s what I choose to believe. That’s what Romeo taught me. Well, that and to always look for signs of life before giving up entirely.