JOURNAL, Thursday, March 7th

How difficult, the life of a thirteen-year old.

I was heading to the secretary’s office at school today when one of the younger kids came out of the washroom and said that Amanda was crying in there. (At what age, I wonder, do kids become secretive protectors of their knowledge and are no longer proud to tell what they know?)

I went into the washroom and was only a little surprised at the audience of six or seven Grade 8 girls gathered around Amanda who was sobbing onto the shoulder of her best friend, Suzie.

I sent Amanda’s friends back to class with as much gentle reassurance as I could offer them. It was nice to see that they care about Amanda, but their presence was almost voyeuristic. I believe that the greatest difference between thirteen-year old boys and girls is that the boys, no matter the circumstances, will deny that a crisis exists. The girls on the other hand will embrace any situation as if it is a crisis; they’ll hover around it and milk it for every bit of empathy, compassion, and time out of class that it can bring them.

I gave Amanda a tissue from my pocket and put some cold water on a few paper towels to help cool her face and calm her down. When one of the kids is upset like that it’s hard to know what to expect from the story behind the tears. I remember speaking with a girl once who was inconsolable about a break up with her boyfriend. As she calmed down a bit I looked for something with which to begin a dialogue: I asked her how long they’d been dating. The wails began anew as she blurted: “It would have been our one-week anniversary tomorrow.” She sobbed on.

But Amanda’s sadness seemed to be tinted with an anger that concerned me – as I say, you never know what to expect.

It turned out that when she was visiting her father in Guelph at Christmas, she met a boy and they’ve kept in touch almost daily on MSN. Plans had been made for her to return to Guelph for Spring Break and she would have left next Saturday except that her mother had become concerned about their attachment, which had grown over the months. She doubted that Amanda’s father would offer the sort of supervision that the mother believed they needed.

“She just hates me,” Amanda cried. “She’ll do anything to keep me from being happy and seeing my Dad.”

What could I say? Her mother was probably right; her father was a busy real estate agent and most likely wouldn’t have the time or the awareness to keep track of Amanda and her boyfriend. Furthermore, the world of chat rooms and Internet relationships must leave her mother with such little control. To those of us who aren’t part of that electronic world, it can appear to be completely innocuous or mysteriously dangerous depending on the stories you choose to believe. But in fact, it’s as much a part of the daily lives of kids as the telephone is, and probably no more sinister. Amanda’s mother is no doubt mystified by anything that could command so much of her daughter’s time and concentration. Poor Amanda. Poor Amanda’s Mom.


And to make matters worse, the whole school is buzzing this week with thoughts of Spring Break, of Florida vacations and ski trips just a few days away. Spring Break is a hard time of the year for many people; it’s what separates those who have much from those who have something but not enough to command a holiday at this odd time of the year. The buzz comes partly from anticipation and excitement, but there’s definitely an element of frustration and jealousy thrown into the mix.

I, for one, am ready for a break. Our lives are so busy that some days Danny and I don’t get to speak to each other until after 10 o’clock at night. We’ve gotten into the habit of having a cup of tea or a glass of wine before going to bed; it’s one of those nice little rituals and one that I look forward to when things are hectic or stressful during the day.

I’ve been getting to the pool more often too. I like my time there, it lets me work out and concentrate on nothing more complicated than regulating my breathing, relaxing my aching muscles and completing my lap goal for each different stroke. It’s a good life I have, and a good life so far that Danny and I are building together. We don’t talk of marriage; it isn’t time yet. We don’t even talk much of the future – maybe this has to do with me working out so much about my past, and Danny and I just beginning to build on our present. I have enough to think about, wrestling with two time zones of my life; we’ll let the future be for a little while yet.

Anyway, I think about Amanda, and try to send her some good thoughts. It’s so tough being thirteen. I’m glad I’m not there anymore.

Copyright 2003