So, if you’ve read about my family, then you know that I have three daughters.  One of which is a teen.  One of which is a tween.  And the last of which is equipped with a 47th chromosome that must be encoded with enough sass and spunk to last her a lifetime. 

     Ah yes.  My angels.

     If there is one thing I’m learning it’s that the teen and tween years are no picnic.  The oldest one wouldn’t be caught dead in an article of clothing that does not have the word “Abercrombie” emblazoned across the front of it.  And since I wouldn’t be caught dead spending $30 for a glorified tissue paper thin t-shirt, you can see how we might clash in that department.

     The tween is just now entering a super fun stage too.  Each and every morning she hosts a pout fest in front of the mirror.  It’s all about the hair.  Her hair is red.  But technically, it’s orange.  Everywhere we go perfect strangers compliment her beautiful hair.  She thanks them.  Then she mutters something inaudible under her breath about dying it when she grows up.

     Having girls this age isn’t all bad.  Yes, there are bad hair days with which I must put up.  And we’ve had a run-in or twelve thousand two with the eye rolling and the sighing and the atrocious attitudes that I thought I Ieft behind in my own teenage years.  Oh yes.  All of these are burdens I must bear.  But with great strife comes great reward my friends.

     I have two words for you: child labor.

     My days of emptying the dishwasher are done gone.  Sweeping up the kitchen floor?  Check.  Cleaning the guest bathroom?  Check.  Setting and clearing the table?  Check, check.

     See there?  Great reward.

     There are laughs along the way too.  Those certainly help see us through to another day.  Here is a snippet:

     Kennedy (the tween) was emptying the dishwasher when one of my favorite deep cereal bowls slipped from her hands and went crashing to the concrete floor of our kitchen.  (Yes, we have concrete floors.  Why?  Because honestly they’re not all that uncommon here in Arizona.  Rather attractive really.  I’ll share a picture sometime.  Let’s move on though).  The bowl remained partially intact.  The other part was left in bits and shards on the floor.

       Kennedy (in her best sheepish voice): Oops.  I’m sorry.

       Me (on the phone with my mom, I holler from the other room): What was it?

       Kennedy: a bowl.

       Me: One of the small bowls?

       Kennedy: No.

       Me: Aw.  You broke one of my bowls?

       Kennedy: Half of it.

     I walk into the room to find her holding the intact half of the bowl in one hand.  Because she is barefoot I excuse her from the room so that I can pick up the pieces, if you will.  Moments later she returns.

       Kennedy: Can we get a new one?

       Me (talking to my Mom in California): Can you go back to that outlet store and pick up a bowl for me?

       Kennedy (pipes up in all seriousness): Just a half one.

     Yeah.  I think she’s a keeper.