Fourth Grade: The Toughest Transition

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This summer, my husband and I have started calling our 9-year-old daughter “The Sloth.” I know it sounds harsh, but it fits her personality perfectly. From a young age, she has never been into sports; even as a kindergartner, she’d pick coloring books over hopscotch and cartoons over kick-the-can. She’s definitely more of an indoor kid, preferring to stay clean and out of the sweltering summer sun.

While this has always been her nature, it seems to have escalated this summer. She’s adamant about spending every waking moment playing Minecraft and consuming comic books, and she becomes downright defiant at the mere suggestion of other activities. “Ugh, it’s too hot to jump on the trampoline!” “I can’t stand hiking; there are too many bugs!” “The pool is always packed. I’m not going!”

In previous years, we could usually coax her into enjoying outdoor activities, but this year, we’re stuck with “The Sloth.” My husband’s solution? He enrolled her in expensive, private tennis lessons that I, as the stay-at-home parent, have to drive her to.

At first, it wasn’t too bad. She’d grumble a bit, close her laptop slowly, and take her time getting dressed. But soon came the eye rolls. By midsummer, she was audibly groaning, stomping up to her room, and slamming drawers as she searched for her tennis shorts. The car ride was filled with her sullen silence, but somehow, by the time we reached the courts, she managed to pull herself together.

“She’s such a sweetheart,” her tennis instructor said to me one day. “She always listens and does what I ask.” I thought, “Oh lady, if you only knew what it took to get her here! Sweet? Maybe with you, but not with me!”

I realized that my daughter is well-behaved, but it’s only when it comes to everyone but her parents. Just last week, I handed her a hairbrush and told her it was time to get ready for tennis. She scowled, snatched the brush, and stormed upstairs. Then, out of nowhere, she threw the hairbrush down the staircase in a fit of rage, shattering it on the hardwood floor. The commotion drew our dog, cat, and her sister running.

“What the heck?” I yelled, my anger boiling over. She stood there with clenched fists, her eyes wide and filling with tears. It was as if she couldn’t believe she had just done that. “It was an accident,” she pleaded.

“No way, I saw you do it! You smashed it on purpose!” I shot back. She shook her head, now genuinely crying. “I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know why I did that…”

“Get dressed and get in the car. Now. We’re late!” I commanded.

The car was silent, but my mind was racing. This is your pacifist child—the one who hates conflict and prefers gentle cat videos on YouTube. So who was this angry child throwing things? While she practiced her backhand on the court, I called my husband. “What is happening to her?” I asked, pacing in the parking lot. “She’s never acted like this. She was so furious, it seemed like she scared herself.” He assured me we’d discuss it later.

After the lesson, her instructor commented on how well she had performed. In the car, my daughter nervously bounced her racquet on her knees, staring out the window. Later, I brought her a warm towel after her shower, and as I entered the bathroom, I casually said, “Here’s a towel. Don’t throw it on the floor when you’re done, okay?” I caught a glimpse of her quickly crossing her arms and turning away, mumbling, “Okay, thanks.”

This is my 9-year-old daughter. Why can’t I figure this out? You’d think I’d have learned something from my older daughter, who is four years her senior. I’ve been through these emotional roller coasters before. I’ve navigated the challenges of puberty, but I always forget how early it can hit girls in our family. My older daughter got her period in fifth grade, and I was completely unprepared. I’d armed her with all the essential books—like The Care and Keeping of You—but she didn’t want to talk about it. My sister faced the same thing in fourth grade, terrified she had an accident. My mom hadn’t discussed puberty with her, thinking it was years away. But then it happened.

How can you prepare your daughter for such adult changes when she’s still so young, stuck in the fourth grade, learning about paragraphs and long division? I don’t know. I just whispered to my husband on the phone, “Puberty. Buckle up.”

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In summary, my daughter is navigating the tumultuous waters of childhood and early adolescence, and as her parent, I’m trying to figure it all out alongside her. The challenges she faces are not just her own, but shared, and it’s a journey we’ll continue together.