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Help! My daughter is a teenager

Firstborn has turned into a teenager.

She doesn't want to get up in the morning. She is in full-scale rebellion against her (quite reasonable, I think) 8pm bedtime. She wants to wear lipstick. She keeps trying to sneak out of the house wearing my high heels. She is desperate for her 'boobies' to grow. She tells me she can't wait until she's eighteen when she'll be The Boss. She won't leave the house unless her toenails are lacquered. She has a 'wardrobe crisis' every morning. When she doesn't get her way she runs sobbing to her room and throws herself onto the bed in anguish. She could quite happily spend hours on the phone giggling with her cousin. And her favorite song is 'Crazy' by Gnarls Barkeley.

Yeah, I know, this all sounds quite normal for a teen. But the problem is that Firstborn is still (thankfully) most definitely pre-pubescent. In fact, the child has just turned four.

I know they say that kids are growing up much quicker these days, but this is ridiculous.

What's next? What happens when she turns five? Clubbing? Boys? Alcopops binges? Rehab?

I can feel a case of the Mommy Fear coming on. I'm off to lie down in a darkened room for a couple of decades.

Can someone let me know when my children turn into civilised human beings? And until that glorious day arrives, please take note of the Do Not Disturb sign fixed firmly on my bedroom door.


Sugarmama said…
This reminds me of when my older girl started kindergarten. Suddenly all she could talk about was the boys in her class and their chase-and-kiss games at recess--this from a girl whose previous obsessions had included imaginary friends, acquiring as many stuffed animals as possible, and milking me for candy and ice cream at every opportunity. I was blind-sided, and 3 years later it's only gotten worse. Much worse.
Emily said…
Hello you two

Just a quick disaster email. Blogger ate my blog. I am GUTTED. I managed to salve most of it and now it is residing at

Because it locked me out of the old site I can't post a redirection and I am trying to let everyone I can think of know. If you could update your sidebar link, I would be so grateful.

Yours in time of desperate need.
Damselfly said…
Aw, sounds like she just wants to be like you. And has a keen ear for pop music.

Or it could be she's sneaking a peek too many at MTV.

You want to know what next? Ha, ha, my dear, pull up a comfy chair and listen up.

By five she will be telling you that you hate her and you wish she was dead: yes, you heard right: not that she hates you and wishes YOU were dead, she'll save that one until she's six and more like a 'proper' teenager.

She will develop sock issues, or underpant issues, or both, and refuse to wear any but the rare and unusual brand found in stock precisely ONCE in a supermarket. You will hunt the internet and op shops for weeks until you find the perfect stash of said brand of socks and/or underpants. On which occasion? She will be briefly ecstatic before trying them on and screwing up her little nose and screeching that THEY DON"T FEEL RIGHT.

Should I go on? Because there is hope. By eight my Pea Princess has dropped many of the more vile pre-pre-pubescent behaviours and is mostly reasonable, most of the time. I feel I am in the eye of the storm: a little semi-peace between the fake teenager and the (oh crap!) real one yet to come.

And if it helps at all, one of the most common conversations I have been having for the past four with mothers of other girls the Pea Princess' age is the "I feel like I'm living with a teenager" conversation.

And none of us lets our daughters watch MTV (!) or shoves them into beauty pageants or treats them like adults when they are still babies or tolerates vile behaviour...

Personally, I blame global warming.

And finally, as I was typing this (ridiculously long, but heartfelt) comment, the horrible thought struck me that the PP's younger sister and her twin brother ha e just turned four and that this morning the littlest girl changed outfits three times before we could go to the park...

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