At the end of this month, my daughter Jazz, my second born, turns 18, and it’s so funny watching her feel conflicted about her newfound reality of what being an adult is like. For example, wanting extravagant things, she’s realizing she can’t afford them as easily as she thought. Jazz has been working since she was 16 with no financial responsibility or obligation to pay anything other than herself the 10% of her net pay by transferring it into her savings account every time her direct deposit hits her account. As young and delusional as we all once were in our teenage years, she’s starting to see even with a little chunk of savings, she simply can’t ball out or splurge on a lavish lifestyle trying to keep up with the Benjamins, which is old people twang for living above your tax bracket means. For the past 11 months, all I heard about was all these plans, procedures, and all the clothing and jewelry she would buy in preparation for a summer transformation glow-up for her senior year next year. I quietly let her rant as I giggled inside, knowing the dollar amount to the things she wanted didn’t add up with her hourly wage or savings, but I refused to burst her bubble, especially with her not letting me live down the way I ruined Santa for her when she was 10. Before I decided to reconnect to my roots as far as religion (Judaism) and spiritualism about seven years ago, I used to celebrate Christmas with my kids.
When Jazz turned 10, we recently moved across the country from San Diego to Maryland because my ex was stationed at the infamous Camp David. We just moved into a cute little townhouse in the housing unit closest to his command. Her older sister, Taina, who was 14 then, was asking about the plans for Christmas with Jazz sitting in the living room. I just recently had my son, who was about two months old and colic, so I was a functioning exhausted zombie at the time who couldn’t even comprehend Jazz was sitting next to me as I asked Ty what she wanted that year, and if she would help me wrap gifts. Ty laughed and started reminiscing all the years she swore Santa was real and how she found out around five years old that Santa wasn’t real but didn’t have the heart to tell me, especially with how excited I used to get trying to make them believe he was real. We both laughed at the lengths I used to go to keep their faith alive for her and her little sisters. Unexpectedly Jazz blurted out with tears in her eyes, “So Santa isn’t real?” And my heart broke into a million little pieces as I realized the mistake I had just made. Taina and I tried to tell her we were joking around, but Jazz wasn’t buying any of our crap, which was pretty evident. Finally, I hugged her and had to tell her the truth … I was giving some random make-believe man the credit for scrounging, saving, and purchasing things I start buying as early as July to be able to give them a nice Christmas every year. She was pretty crushed as she asked me if the easter bunny was a lie too. I already felt like a jackass and didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, so I lied and said yes, which bought me another year. Since then, she hasn’t let me live that down so I’m cautious with her and make it a point to let her see everything on her own and support her as best as I can once she realizes things aren’t always what she perceives them to be, especially when it comes to adulting.
Over the past couple of weeks, she’s been overly co-dependent on her father and me to do the silliest things, and as much as it is sudden and a tad annoying, I see exactly where it’s stemming from. She’s tested the waters with both her father and I as she asked our opinion if she decided to venture out and pursue costly things, which she claims would make her happy. Naturally, I not only identify where she’s coming from by asking her a series of interrogative questions regarding her true motive, intention, and expectations on the matters in my non-invasive feeling of a way that gets her and many clients of mine to spill all the beans I need in order to determine for myself if they’re true or not. My parenting style over the past couple of years proved the method to madness effective with her to the point she feels more at ease and will even feel guilty at times; she gets defensive knowing as long as she’s open and honest doesn’t have to be. On the other hand, her father is a little more blunt and direct regarding reality and how the world operates, ensuring the kids don’t easily forget whatever lesson he’s trying to teach. Two totally different parenting styles which are equally effective and necessary. Over the past week, Jazz has asked about getting a tattoo, which I’m not opposed to as long as it’s not on her beautiful face, especially with the advancement of laser removal procedures and services. I asked my series of questions to investigate if the reasons why were solely hers and for the right reasons before telling her I had to issue with it. “Tell your father; I’m sure it’s fine, but out of respect you should tell him anyway,” I told her and that evening as soon as she saw him, she did. She asked him the same question about how he would feel about it just as she did me and all he did was question her about why she wanted to do it. I don’t know if she panicked or what, but she got extremely defensive and snapped with because I’m an adult and that’s what I want to do. Of course, I was there and shook my head before explaining how the question was asked out of curiosity instead of a place of restriction. She apologized but I knew in my soul that the battle was far from over. Her father is a little more strategic when it comes to his methods, especially when he’s trying to teach a valuable lesson or get his point across, something he credits his late mother with that he learned from her parenting style. We live so far out in the mountains that last year, for Jazz’s birthday, he paid for driving lessons for her to take to help her earn her license once she turns 18. Her last lesson is soon approaching, and she asks her father to set up that appointment. Hey, you told me you were an adult, so if taking that last lesson is something you really want to do, then you have to step up and set up the appointment like an adult. Jazz was always a prideful and stubborn child so she agreed to do so herself and asked for the phone number. After a week I asked her what day her appointment was, to which she broke down on a rant going on and on about how she can’t get through to set it for whatever reason and why her dad just couldn’t set it because technically she won’t be 18 until the end of the month. I laughed and shrugged my shoulders before she asked me with her sweet and beautiful brown eyes of hers if I could set it for her. All I saw was the innocent little 10 year old that day I ruined Santa for her before letting out a big sigh and agreeing. I couldn’t help but laugh because no matter how old she gets, she’ll forever be my baby and honestly I wouldn’t have it any other way. Mom Life.
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