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my fifteen-year-old daughter, Alison, stood in the middle of her room, surrounded by piles of T-shirts, shorts, tennis shoes, still-dirty laundry, and toiletries we'd just purchased.
"Don't you think you ought to take a rain poncho since you'll be camping out? What about tucking in the stuff we bought?" I asked, a bit time-pressured since she needed to leave from the church in an hour.
"I don't need your help packing, and I'm not taking any of that stuff, especially the poncho," Alison answered, irritated at my interference. Within a few minutes, our conversation escalated into anger, and an uncomfortable silence accompanied us as I drove her to catch the church van headed for camp.
What happened to that good relationship Ali and I used to have, Lord? I asked on the way home, my heart sinking. Snapshots of the after-school conversations we'd shared over hot chocolate and freshly baked donuts drifted across my memory. Maybe that's why the tensions of mid-adolescence came as such a big surprise. Suddenly, my suggestions on homework (or just about anything) were met with an argument. When her room looked like nuclear fallout, she resented my reminders to clean it. All I had to do was say "Mom things," and Alison found me irritating.
The mother-daughter relationship can be one of the most intense, loving, and strained—especially during adolescence. As moms, we try to prepare our daughters for what's ahead, hoping they'll accept at least some of our advice. All the while they're trying to spread their wings. So what can we do when mother-daughter conflicts erupt? For me, the first step toward a better relationship was on my knees. As I spent time talking with God about what he wanted for Ali and me, God revealed some "majors" to focus on: the need to listen and accept our differences, and the need to stop exerting control in areas he pointed out were "minors."
It's amazing how a little thing can cause big conflict, but Alison's hair had become a power struggle. She wanted to be creative—to try a shorter style dyed burgundy. I envisioned a horrid red hue spoiling her lovely blond hair, and since I was paying for beauty-shop expenses, I thought I ought to have a little input. She disagreed. Tension grew over the hair issue.
Strangely, tension grew between the Lord and me. Frustrated, I prayed, Lord, what do you want me to do? You know what she'll look like with those colors!
"Release her," he said.
Finally, one afternoon when Alison was in the kitchen, I turned to her and said, "Alison, your hair is yours to do with whatever you want. Your room is, too—we'd prefer you keep it clean, but no more nagging, or going in and picking up."
With a smile, Ali agreed. While I wasn't thrilled with her messy room or all the creative hairdos and colors she paraded to the breakfast table each morning, transferring responsibility to Alison provided one less opportunity for conflict.
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