Girls Gone Wild
Jun 21st, 2013 by Christina

If you know anyone who happens to be location-scouting for a documentary on the rise and fall of estrogen, please have them ring our doorbell asap. It’s a madhouse in here, what with all of us at a critical point in our femaleness, each trying desperately to negotiate a somewhat-peaceful relationship with the mother of all hormones.

There’s my 12-year-old daughter, who has but a dollop of the stuff and has only recently retired her dolls and Calico Critters; my 16-year-old daughter, who has reached peak ripeness; and me, clinging to the few little drops that still course through my weary veins.

And, btw, it’s not just the humans in the house who are wrestling with this shit. We’ve also got two guinea pigs, both girls, who hump each other on occasion, and two female cockatiels, one of whom can’t stop laying eggs even though they are infertile and she is destined to remain childless (unless she finally catches the eye of the hottie cardinal who frequents our yard. Don’t think she hasn’t tried, even though he is married to that grey little thing.)

So that makes seven of us gals, all being either flooded with or depleted of this sex-specific, sex-inspiring hormone. (Yet, as far as I know, none of us is actually having sex, which, trust me, doesn’t make the situation any better.)

It’s weird how we are all bonded by having X chromosomes, yet we don’t get each other at all. We should feel more simpatico, no? If you were to make a Venn diagram, the part where we all overlap would be a teeny-tiny sliver, probably rendered in tears. (Let’s remove the furry and feathered from the equation, because obviously they present barriers that can’t be overcome.)

I should have no excuse, having once been 12 and 16 myself, but the truth is I have no flipping idea how to relate to my girls most of the time. I am prone to giving them dorky suggestions, like telling the 12-year-old to read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret again or asking my 16-year-old if she and the boy she likes are “an item” (and then making it worse by asking her to explain “hooking up,” at which point she slams the door in my face). Lord knows, they have no idea what to make of me and my aging issues. Last time I tried to share with them how hard it is to feel your feminine power slipping away, they ran, screaming, in the other direction. Now why would they do that?

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