What comes around, goes around.

I am a terrible, cruel mother.  Jenn is turning into a juvenile delinquent because I have no rules. I am cheating her out of her car. This was conclusively determined by my ex-husband last weekend, and Jenn, who can smell a better deal from at least one town away, decided that she’d rather live with him for a bit. Especially after he bought her a car last weekend.

But wait, you may say. Didn’t she already have a car? Oh yeah, the one that we helped her buy last summer after which she never made another car or insurance payment, until we repossessed it right before Christmas. How unreasonable can parents be? And when we offered to give her back the original downpayment and even told her we’d sell her Joe’s old car for the cash, this was a blatant attempt to cheat our own daughter. See what happens when unbridled greed takes hold of our souls?

For about two minutes I let ex-Ray’s judgement of my parenting worm into my saddened heart, and then I thought, WHAA? Bad parent? This coming from a man who used to make 3-year-old Jessie watch her infant sister while he slept off a hangover; a man who has never made it to a single school Open House, sports event, music recital, doctor’s appointment, or even Jessie’s High School graduation?

I decided to sit back and let the fun begin.

Tuesday I took her to the doctor for her first pelvic exam, and in the meantime I got to hear about ex-Ray’s wonderfulness in helping her buy a car. The downpayment wasn’t quite enough, but her dad was “helping her out”. He didn’t want anyone to know how he was helping her out, since he didn’t want the whole world to know what a nice guy he was. It was their secret. That’s beautiful.

Wednesday at 6 am she called to ask if I would call her in sick to school. Stomach. Severe pains. No sleep. You’ve heard this all before. I gave her the school phone number and suggested her dad, um, be a parent.

Thursday at 6 am she called crying, saying she was still sick and her Dad wouldn’t call her school. I told her Dad’s house, Dad’s rules. She sobbed that he was yelling that no matter how sick she was, she better get her ass to work that night because she owed him money. Hm. Yes, he said ass. We don’t generally use the word ass when talking to our children in this house, but you know, Dad’s house, Dad’s rules.

Thursday afternoon she proposed coming over to my house and sleeping during her work shift so her dad wouldn’t know she didn’t go to work. Vetoed. She went to work.

This afternoon she came home to say dad doesn’t care about her health at all, he just cares about her making her car payments. Hm.

She wants to come home. Hm.

Let’s all bow our heads for a moment of humility.

The entire Chicagoland area has been buried in a snowstorm of epic proportions, a storm that has the old-timers duly comparing this to the dread Winter of 1981 and talking about their early predictions based on the rings on caterpillars and the direction of flying geese. In fact, Little One had a day and a half off due to snow days, an event that happens so rarely that First Born called up to complain about how spoiled her sister is, since FB never had a single snow day in twelve years of primary education.

However, last night’s High School Open House was not cancelled. The roads were awful, but I was semi-willing to go anyway. When I got to the parking lot, I saw there were only a few rows of cars and rejoiced because even though I was as late as I always am, I could find a spot near the door!

I started to feel sorry for all the teachers in there just waiting for Moms and Dads to come talk to them about their teens. Clearly most of these parents were either afraid to drive in the storm or preferred to stay home in the warmth rather than brave the semi-blizzard to discuss their teenager’s education. Not me. I didn’t want to be out in the cold, but I placed a higher value on Little One’s education. Connecting with her teachers was obviously a higher priority for me than most parents.

Then I got to the door and read the sign that said the Open House was at the other campus. On the other side of the city. Just as it had said in the flyer we received last month.

One reason to password-protect your palm phone

So that your teenager doesn’t pick it up and immediately see the following text message exchange:

Me: Wear the red boxers 2nite?

Me: Hubba hubba!

Joe: OK! I love you!

Little One then had to scrub her eyeballs with bleach-soaked brillo pads to erase the image of such horridness. I’m taking her to a therapist to help her work through this event.