This summer, my partner and I have started calling our 9-year-old daughter “The Sloth.” While it may sound harsh, it’s not entirely inaccurate. Our younger child has never been particularly sporty. Even back in kindergarten, she opted for coloring books over hopscotch and preferred cartoons to kick-the-can. She’s always been more of an indoor enthusiast, shunning dirt and sweat while wilting under the midday sun like a delicate flower.
This summer, however, her aversion to outdoor activities has reached new heights. Rather than exploring the great outdoors, she’s adamant about spending her days immersed in Minecraft and buried in comic books, and she becomes particularly vocal if we dare suggest anything else.
- “Eww, it’s too hot for the trampoline!”
- “I can’t stand hiking; there are too many bugs.”
- “The pool is always too crowded. I’m not going!”
In previous years, we could coax her into joining us for outdoor fun, and with a little encouragement, she’d eventually come around. This year, though, we’re dealing with The Sloth. My partner’s response was to sign her up for biweekly tennis lessons—private lessons that come with a hefty price tag. As the stay-at-home parent, I’m the one responsible for ferrying her to these sessions.
Initially, it wasn’t too bad. She’d let out a sigh or two, reluctantly shut her laptop, and slowly get dressed. But soon, the eye rolls began. By midsummer, she was audibly groaning, stomping up to her room, and slamming dresser drawers as she searched for her tennis shorts. The car rides to her lessons were filled with silence, but by the time we reached the tennis courts, she seemed to have pulled herself together.
“She’s such a delight and always listens to my instructions,” her tennis coach remarked to me one day. “She’s so cooperative.” Little did she know what it took to get The Sloth to her lessons. Cooperative? Not with me!
In fact, my daughter is agreeable—just not with her parents. Last week, I handed her a hairbrush and told her it was time to get ready for tennis. She glared at me, snatched the brush from my hand, and stormed upstairs. Suddenly, she halted, turned around, and threw the hairbrush down the staircase in a fit of rage. The impact echoed against the hardwood floor, causing our dog, cat, and her sister to rush in.
“What on earth?” I exclaimed, anger washing over me.
Standing on the staircase with clenched fists, her eyes were wide and welling with tears. It was as if she startled herself. “It was an accident,” she pleaded.
“No, it definitely was not! I saw you do it! You threw that on purpose!”
She shook her head, crying now. “I didn’t mean to! I swear! I don’t know why I did that!”
“Get dressed and get in the car. We’re late,” I said firmly.
The ride home was filled with silence, but my mind was racing: This is your gentle child who hates conflict. This is the sweet girl who’s never shown aggression.
So who is this new version of her, the one throwing tantrums? As she practiced her backhand on the court, I dialed my partner, pacing nervously. “What’s happening to her? She’s never acted like this before. She was furious, almost as if she frightened herself.” He listened, though his job kept him busy, promising we’d talk later.
“She performed wonderfully today,” her tennis teacher said as she handed me my daughter’s racket.
In the car, she bounced the racket nervously on her knees, staring out the window. Later, as I brought her a fresh towel after her shower, I walked into the bathroom as usual. “Here’s a warm towel. Please don’t toss it on the floor when you’re done, okay?” I said lightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her quickly crossing her arms and turning away. “Okay, thanks,” she mumbled.
This is my 9-year-old daughter. Why can’t I remember how quickly things change for girls in my family? I have an older daughter, four years her senior, and I should know better by now. We’ve already navigated the tumultuous waters of emotions and changes. I’ve gone through it twice, once being my own experience. Yet, I still forget.
My older daughter got her period in fifth grade, and I was completely unprepared. I armed her with every resource available—the essentials like The Care and Keeping of You and classic Judy Blume novels—but she didn’t want to discuss it. I recall my sister receiving hers in fourth grade, terrified she had soiled herself because our mother hadn’t anticipated the need to talk about puberty so soon.
How can you prepare your daughter for such complex and adult matters when she’s still 9, in the fourth grade, learning about perfect paragraphs and just starting long division, still firmly in childhood?
I don’t have the answers. As I whisper into the phone to my partner, “Puberty is approaching. Buckle up,” I can only hope we’re ready for the journey ahead. For further insights on navigating this transition, you might want to check out this related article.
Summary
As a mother of two, one of whom is approaching puberty, I’m grappling with the emotional upheaval that comes with this transitional phase. My youngest, dubbed “The Sloth,” is resisting outdoor activities and exhibiting unexpected outbursts, which has left me questioning how to handle her changing behavior. This article reflects on the challenges of parenting during this confusing time and highlights the need for open communication about puberty and emotions.
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