Tears and drama

Oh dear gawd. It's starting. A tidal wave of pre-teen hormonal drama has washed over this house.

Ever since I was first told I was having twin girls, I've been fearing this moment: The wildly irrational pubescent tween-and-teen years. I remember cuddling each infant, barely days old, and whispering into tiny ears, "Please go easy on me when you get older, okay?"

And for a while, it appeared they listened.

For the past year I've watched as my girls have begun to blossom into young ladies. As they've begun subtle physical changes, I watched cautiously, but hadn't seen any signs of those dreaded emotional ones. You know, wild mood swings, crying jags, sarcastic remarks. Miraculously, it was as if we'd been spared.

Until now.

The tears and drama have officially begun -- at least with one of the girls, The Deuce.

I find this surprising because Mad Dog, the first born by a mere 4 minutes, has always led the way when it comes to firsts. The first to crawl, the first to walk, the first to grow and lose teeth. And when she hit a growth spurt this summer and shed her bony, knock-kneed legs for those of a slender pre-teen girl, I thought for sure she'd be the first to hit me with bitter sarcasm and tween-angst-inspired tears.

But it wasn't so.

The Deuce, who still physically resembles a skinny third grader, has come up from behind the pack to secure first place as the master drama queen. She's become a pro at manipulating her siblings into doing things for her (including her chores) and questions me at every turn with a tone of voice I find both unacceptable and annoying.

I'm now subconsciously channeling my mother and saying things I once vowed (as an angst-riddled tween) never to say:

I don't like that tone of voice, young lady.

Go in your room and think about what you said.

If you want to act like a baby, I'll treat you like a baby.

and the dreaded:

You'd better shape up, or ship out.

Even I don't like hearing what I'm saying.

As I foggily recall my own tween-to-teen years, I remember staring at the space between my mom's eyebrows, turning her out as she lectured me about how "it's not what you said, it's how you said it," and I can see The Deuce has begun doing the same thing to me.

Karma's a total bitch.

The only saving grace is that, for now, only one of the girls has turned this ugly corner. I can manage a one-kid attack, but when Mad Dog starts in, which I know she will eventually, I'm not sure how I'll survive a dual assault.

For now, I'll hunker down and plan my defense. And in between waves of The Deuce's verbal assaults, I'll work on designing our new family crest: Tears and Drama. I can see the shield now: A box of tissues flanked by drama masks. The background: white with a hot pink zebra pattern.

I'll hang it above our door as a warning to all who enter:

You are now entering the Valley of Tears. Proceed at your own risk.