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“Ugh,” my twelve-year-old daughter says. Wait, is this a talking moment? Nope. It’s a grunted moment. So it’s more accurate to write “Ugh,” my twelve-year-old daughter grunted.
To the untrained ear, this sound conveys contempt for life, society, and those people that live in it. But for me, an experienced dad fluent in preteen linguistics, it means something very different. A single “ugh” means “I love you father, I slept great. Thank you for asking.”
She goes to the cabinet and grabs the cereal. It’s special cereal that her younger brothers are not allowed to touch for some reason. They do, of course. Their role in the family, according to my daughter, is to torture her.
“They just wanted to eat breakfast this morning,” I tell my daughter as she sits down.
“Ugh, Ugh, moan,” she says (grunts). Oh, I got this one. It means “Dearest father. I know that they just wanted some cereal but I would hope they could not eat all of my special brand.”
“Can I make you an omelet this morning, honey?” I ask.
“Ugh, ugh, mmmrrrr, ugh,” –No thank you. I am not up to eating the yolk of your contempt.
“How about some pancakes? I’ve got some mix I could do real quick. Really, it’s no trouble at all,” I said.
“Uggggggghhhhhh,”–I’m very sorry to say that your existence bothers me. She gets the milk out, a bowl, and a spoon that can easily be crafted into a shiv.
“Ready for school today?” I ask.
“Uggh, moan, ugh, ugh,”–School is a construct of conformity designed by the elite.”
Hmm. Yes, you may have a point. Interesting. But you have a test today, are you ready for it?”
“Ugh, Ugh, ugh, grunt,”–I find it disturbing that society deems it necessary to validate their teaching methods.
She finishes her cereal and heads back up to get ready. I take the twenty minutes to write in my field notebook that I’m close to a breakthrough in the communication pattern of the twelve-year-old moody preteen. Perhaps more hugs are in order? The vernacular of the preteen is fascinating, and I’m sure I can get this study published somewhere.
My daughter comes back down. “How about after school today we head down to the park and play some volleyball,” I say.
“Ugh, ugh, mumph,”–I would find that acceptable.
“Maybe we can bring your brothers, too?”
“Ugh, Ugh,” –That would not be acceptable. She grabs her backpack, something that I know that she approves of because she didn’t grunt at me at all when I bought it for her. She opens the door.
“Wait!” I say.
“Ugh, mmmph,”–what?
“Hugs and kisses!” I run over to her and embrace her. A big bear hug, one that lets her know that as much as she loves grunting at me, I still get her. I understand. And if she wants to keep grunting, that’s fine. I’ll work through it. I’m Dad. It’s what I do. She squirms a bit, wants to end the hug earlier than it should. To her, hugs are an everyday occurrence. Something that is almost a chore and she’s got more important things to do. She doesn’t know yet that they mean more than that. They are the universal language, the thing that shows people that they are cared about. Even when the world seems the most vengeful and incoherent, the hug speaks to everyone. And on tough days, we need them more than ever. Believe me.
“Ugh, ugh, ugh,”–that’s enough. I’ve gotta go.
“Ok, baby girl. Love you,” I say.
“Ugh,”–Love you. Probably. She shuts the door on her way out.
I walk back to my kitchen to write a letter to the British Foundation Of Preteen Communication and Behaviors. I need more funding to truly understand. Perhaps an additional ice cream cone a week would be sufficient. The front door opens. The door almost bounces off the walls as it’s pushed too quickly. Before I can turn around, I am tackled from behind. Small arms wrap themselves around my shoulders. They are too short to reach across my chest so my daughter grabs my t-shirt to hang on. It’s tight. It’s fierce. It goes on longer than it should.
“I’ll miss you, too, baby girl. Be safe today,” I say.
“I love you, Dad,” she says.
And there it is. I’ve made a breakthrough. I’m going to get a Nobel Prize for this.
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