Burned at the Stake

Last night I set a 4-pound sirloin steak on fire. Seriously. I spent the greater part of the day looking up the perfect recipe and grilling technique -- only to have that disobedient piece of cow explode into flames.

Can you say Flame- migon?

Alien Invasion

No one quite prepared me for the day my oldest daughter would transform into an alien being.

Now there really isn’t much of an excuse. I was a dreadful pre-teen.

I remember the day my parents hands felt toxic to my touch and their hugs became the equivalent of Chinese water torture.

That summer my grandparents graciously treated my brother and I to a trip to Yellowstone National Park, a land filled with magnificent waterfalls, its own “grand canyon,” a spectacular clear blue lake and geysers and smudge pots galore.

Unfortunately I was championing the belief that “nothing was really beautiful, and life and love were an illusion.”

How could someone filled with so much pre-teen angst not be prepared for the day when her own child’s smile vanishes?

Well, I wasn’t.

I was caught off guard the day she went all bi-polar switching between the expressionless face of a bored statue one minute and into the overly dramatic face of one destined to the heretics’ barbecue the next.

In truth, I thought she was sick. Anyone who cries real weepy nasty tears over someone sitting in her chair for dinner either has no sympathy for Goldilocks or has to be coming down with the flu.

For days I waited for the hysterics to stop.

“I think she’s depressed,” I confided to my mom. “She hasn‘t smiled in weeks. She barely talks to me any more, and she rarely comes out of her room.”

“She’s not sick, Bonnie,” my mother said. “She’s just 10. You were horrible at that age.”

My mother left me with the sweet assurance: “It’s only going to get worse.”

I imagined her cackling from the safety of her pre-teen-less Texas hideaway because “paybacks are hell.” I had fulfilled my destiny by having a daughter “just like me.”

I took comfort in the fact that my daughter wasn’t rebelling. She was just bothered. A little time away might do her good, so she stayed with her nana and went swimming while her sisters and I went on our annual road trip.

For two weeks, I was Maggie-free. Now some might think I relished my time away from the girl who locked herself in the tower and awaited the Spanish Armada, but I didn’t. I missed her even though for two whole weeks my life was free from gum battles and foot fights.

My little girls played like the best of friends, shared clothes and even spent their own money to buy each other presents.

You’d think I’d be relaxing by the fire with a pina colada and celebrating my good fortune, but I pinned for my daughter living it up without her mom.

And then-- we crossed paths in Arizona.

I greeted her with June Cleaver excitement. She retired to her room with a book and didn’t come out until supper.

Every time her sisters looked at her, she’d turn into Abigail Williams (from “The Crucible” ) and go on a Puritanical witch hunt.

After two days, I felt guilty because I shamefully admit I wanted to return to my two-child pre-teen-free road trip.

No souvenir was cool enough. No musical download “current” enough. In short, I was uncool.

Once home, she locked herself in her dungeon and came out only to fight with her sisters (every 15 minutes). Her fights were dramatic tirades destined to split my eardrums and make burst a blood vessel.

How could I comfort her? How could I unlock that beautiful Maggie smile? She was my sunshine girl.

A sign on her door ordered no one to enter without knocking first. Hmm? Hmm?
I whipped open the door. She threw the covers over her bed. Hmm?

“What are you hiding?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said, flashing a nervous I’m-up-to-something giggle.

Hmm? Probably a picture of Adam Lambert, the unattainable love of her pre-teen life. I shut the door.

The next morning I whipped the door open more quickly. This time she wasn’t fast enough. A corner of a well-known off limits book peaked out of her bedspread. The rebel had been captured. The book banished.

And so, I am going on notice to all friends of Maggie, my beloved and thoroughly grounded daughter, please do not bother calling her or emailing her until further notice. She’s been sent to at-home labor camp and will be unavailable for some time.