This summer, my partner and I have jokingly started calling our 9-year-old daughter “The Sloth.” It may sound harsh, but there’s a kernel of truth to it. Our younger daughter has never been the most athletic. Even in kindergarten, she preferred coloring books to hopscotch and chose cartoons over kick-the-can. She’s always been more of an indoor kid—averse to dirt and sweat, wilting under the midday sun like a delicate flower.
While she has always had this disposition, this summer has taken it to a new level. Rather than enjoy the great outdoors, she insists on spending all her time immersed in Minecraft and bingeing comic books. If we dare suggest any outdoor activities, she becomes quite vocal about her distaste.
“Yuck! It’s too hot to jump on the trampoline.”
“I can’t stand hiking. There are too many bugs.”
“The swimming pool is always packed. No thanks!”
In previous years, we could coax her into joining us for outdoor fun, and with a bit of encouragement, she’d eventually agree, leading to enjoyable family outings. But now, we have The Sloth. In an effort to combat her reluctance, my husband signed her up for private tennis lessons—lessons that come with a hefty price tag and that I, as a stay-at-home parent, am usually responsible for driving her to.
Initially, the lessons weren’t too bad. She would sigh dramatically and take her time getting dressed. Then came the eye rolls. By mid-summer, she was audibly groaning, stomping to her room, and slamming dresser drawers while searching for tennis shorts. The car rides to the courts were filled with her sullen silence, but by the time we arrived, she seemed to have pulled herself together.
“She’s a delight in class,” her tennis coach remarked to me one day. “She follows my instructions perfectly and doesn’t give me any trouble.” If only she knew what it took to get her there! Agreeable? Not with us.
Just last week, I handed her a hairbrush and told her it was time to prepare for tennis. She scowled, snatched the brush, and stormed upstairs. Suddenly, she halted, turned around, and hurled the brush down the stairs in a fit of rage. The impact broke it and created a loud thud on the hardwood floor, causing the dog, the cat, and her sister to rush over.
“What on earth?” I exclaimed, my frustration boiling over.
She stood on the staircase, fists clenched but eyes wide and brimming with tears, as if she couldn’t believe her own actions. “It was an accident,” she stammered.
“No, it definitely wasn’t! I saw you do that! You threw it on purpose!”
She shook her head, now genuinely crying. “I didn’t mean to! I swear, I just… I don’t even know why I did that…”
“Get dressed and get in the car,” I said firmly. “We’re running late.”
The car ride was silent, but my mind was racing: This is your pacifist child, the one who avoids conflict at all costs. This is your sensitive daughter who has never shown aggression. So, who was this furious child who smashed things?
While she practiced her backhand, I called my husband, pacing in the parking lot. “What is happening to her?” I asked, voicing my concerns. “She’s never acted like this before. She was so angry—out of control. I think she scared herself.” He promised we’d discuss it when he got home.
“Today was fantastic!” her instructor said, handing me the racquet after class.
In the car, she nervously bounced the racquet on her knees, staring out the window. Later, I brought her a fresh towel after her shower, entering the bathroom as usual. “Here’s a warm towel. Please don’t toss it on the floor when you’re done, okay?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her quickly cross her arms, turn away, and reply, “Okay, thanks.”
This is my 9-year-old daughter. I should know better by now; I have an older daughter who’s four years her senior, and I’ve been through the emotional rollercoaster before. I have navigated the confusion and changes of adolescence. You’d think I’d remember how early these things can start for girls in my family. My first daughter got her period in fifth grade, leaving me stunned and unprepared. I had armed her with all the necessary knowledge, but she still didn’t want to discuss it. My sister experienced her first period in fourth grade, thinking she had an accident. Our mother hadn’t prepared her, believing there was still time.
How can one prepare their daughter for such complex and adult experiences at just 9 years old, when she’s still mastering writing perfect paragraphs and tackling long division?
I’m not sure. I whisper to my husband, “Looks like puberty is on the horizon. Get ready.”
For more insights on navigating these transitions, check out this excellent resource from the NHS on intrauterine insemination here, and for additional tips on home insemination, take a look at this guide. For further engagement, you can explore our other blog post here.
In summary, parenting a young girl through early adolescence can be challenging. The emotional complexities and rapid changes can catch even the most prepared parents off guard. Understanding, patience, and open communication are essential as we navigate this journey together.