It is official: I am now the parent of a teenager. You know what this means, right? I am redundant, ridiculous and completely and utterly dense (insert eye roll here). Welcome to my world.
There is strange comfort in knowing that my eight years of post-secondary education were thoroughly wasted because, apparently, I know nothing about anything, ever. In defiance, I continue to fall into the trap of answering countless questions from my teenager, who has already decided I am wrong but asks anyway. No matter what I say, it will be refuted, argued and bludgeoned by the fateful phrase, “whatever.” I never have the last word any more.
My only exception to that rule is music. I am never wrong about good music. Ever. This is a hot button issue in the car. But if momma makes the car payments, momma picks the tunes. The Go-Go’s over Britney, always.
Oh sure, I have taught my teenager valuable life lessons like when friends let you down, eat chip dip. When homework overwhelms, eat chip dip. When you celebrate, eat chip dip. Honestly, I have that whole psychological therapy part down. I have done my duty to make her understand that brooding is selfish, but acceptable only if I get to do it first. Temper tantrums, though unattractive, are deeply healing. Crying is not a crime, it is a female cleanse and the inability to exercise your tear ducts results in bad mascara mishaps down the line.
Speaking of mascara, my teenager recently asked me to show her how to apply it. I suggested we look it up on You Tube. I think that scared her. Next thing you know she’ll be asking me what shoes go with what purse and want help accessorizing stuff. I need an Ativan just thinking about it.
We have had “the talk” too. I learned a lot. When it was my turn to speak I told my daughter the honest, straightforward truth: boys carry a rare, contagious bacterium that infects your innards. The only cure is to have them graduate university/trade school/NHL or become gainfully employed (circle one or all of the above). In order to protect herself, my daughter must graduate with a PhD, travel the world and not rule out a life of celibacy before ever going near a boy. What? Like you didn’t think of that.
Unfortunately, the Carpenter and I decided to potty-train our daughter. In hindsight, we shouldn’t have bothered. It would have guaranteed she would never date.
I am not sure how I went from swaddling a fully-clothed baby girl to wanting to swaddle a partially dressed teenager who insists on finding new ways to scare me with her cut-off denim shorts and her attempts at off-the-shoulder sweaters, but it seems I blinked and my life skipped a few chapters.
Somewhere in my heart, there is a sense of panic that I cannot stop the time clock. My daughter won’t ever need me the way she used too, and yet, she needs me in ways she doesn’t know yet, and I am not sure I am prepared.
But I know I am lucky to see my daughter turn 13. Her life is my blessing. She is amazing. I am grateful for every moment.