“You’re impossible!”
Two words. Two words that showed up on the screen of her communication device were all it took to solidify the fact that, yes, I do indeed have a tween living in my home. I mean, there were other things that kind of clued me in. There was the slamming of the bedroom door by forcefully rolling her wheelchair into it when I sent her to her room, the locking of herself in her bedroom — again, by rolling her wheelchair into said door until it closed, then “parking” herself behind it so no one could enter — and, oh, how could I forget the tears that flowed that Thursday afternoon and just would not stop. When I asked her what was wrong, all I could get was, “I don’t know,” entered into her communication device over and over again. But this declaration that I am impossible? Well, that sealed the deal! I had graduated from Mean Mom to IMPOSSIBLE MOM.
But now I was faced with a quandary: What do I do with this new proclamation? It was borderline disrespectful, but it was also a fair and valid expression of how she was feeling. I could argue with her — you know, get into an ’80s sitcom back-and-forth, where I’m shouting that she’s the impossible one and she just continually presses the “you’re impossible” button on her device. I could ground her for being disrespectful, even though she really wasn’t. Or I could accept it, and secretly revel in this expression of tween rage. I decided, with all my “Impossible Mom” wisdom, to acknowledge her declaration of my incredulousness.
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“I’m impossible?” I lobbed back, stifling my chuckle.
“Yeah!” she replied audibly, not wanting to waste time looking for the “yes” button but wanting to make absolutely sure I knew she was serious.
“Huh. You’re probably right. I probably am impossible. I can think of two ex-husbands, one mother and a handful of ex-friends who would probably agree with you. But you see, the thing is, none of them are here right now. It’s just you and me — we’re stuck together. So, if this is impossible to you, well, honey, you’re probably gonna think the next seven years are downright unbearable. Sorry, kid.”
With that, my 11-year-old gave me the steely eyed glare I instantly recognized as my own, then looked down at her device and pressed another button.
“Goodbye,” said the childlike voice programmed into her device.
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It took everything in me not to fall to the ground in a heap of laughter. My child was done with me. She didn’t want to hear another thing I had to say and had absolutely no qualms about letting me know. Lord have mercy — she was most definitely my child.
“Peace out, homie!”
With that, I exited her bedroom, closed the door behind me and went straight to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine. What had just happened? Whom did I encounter in that bedroom? Had I produced a teeny-tiny version of myself? Was this payback for the intolerable cruelty I put my own mother through from ages 11 to 13? Nope. It wasn’t any of that.
It was confirmation.
Share this articleShareConfirmation that my daughter is just like any other girl out there who is learning to navigate the horrors of changing hormones. She’s full of sass and attitude and tears (oh my GOD, the tears). She’s crazy about boys and vintage ’90s junk, just like so many girls her age. This “insult,” if you will (because I’m sure she believed she had “gotten me good” with that one) just affirmed for me that disability does not negate personality. To be honest, she has been affirming this notion for me since the day I got her official diagnosis of bilateral schizencephaly and cerebral palsy. The doctors told me that the schizencephaly would probably affect her ability to produce speech and her motor planning skills. The cerebral palsy would affect her motor planning skills, muscle tone and balance. And although all of this is true, neither diagnosis has affected her personality, and thanks to the wonders of technology, we’re all able to see it. On full display. Whether we like it or not. And if I’m being completely honest with you, I don’t like it.
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I LOVE IT.
Seeing my kid act like this sometimes may give me a few (okay, like 20) extra gray hairs, but that’s nothing a good weave or braids can’t cover up. The freedom she gets to just be a typical tween with a personality all her own, a whole human being, capable of feeling emotions and experiencing life and expressing herself — how beautiful is that? I can’t punish her for that!
Don’t get me wrong: She does get punished. I hand out groundings like new rolls of toilet paper. She doesn’t get to act like this all the time and think she can get away with it because she’s cute and disabled. No, no, honey. That’s not the way it works. With freedom comes responsibility, and with responsibility comes rewards or consequences. This child of mine is fully aware of what is right and what is wrong, and when she’s really wrong, I waste no time in getting her really right. I’m still the mom, she’s still the kid and disability or not, there are still norms, rules and expectations I have in place for her. And I need her to know this; it is imperative that she knows this. It might even save her life one day, because, sadly, the society we live in is incredibly ableist. Sometimes, it seems incurably so.
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Many people are surprised when disabled people make a joke, or assert themselves, or go on a date, or get in trouble, or do anything that relates to the most basic human lived experience. That is the embodiment of ableism — not seeing past someone’s disability. It is okay to acknowledge the disability, but you must also acknowledge that there is a whole human being attached to said disability. Too many times, society has failed to afford kiddos like mine the gift of being whole human beings. If we are going to call ourselves inclusive, we have to actually include ALL of us. Even the gray-hair-inducing, make-you-call-your-mom-and-apologize tween ones. Even when they tell us we’re impossible.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have to figure out how to take the new Zac Efron special out of my Netflix queue. If this kid oohs and aahs over his pecs one more time…
Adiba Nelson is the author of the children’s book about inclusion “Meet ClaraBelle Blue” and the voice of “The Word,” contributing original essays on race, parenting, relationships and disability on the NPR/AZPM 89.1 radio show “Arizona Spotlight.” She is penning her memoir and developing a show about her life.
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