I knew the time would come. I really did. Still, secretly I hoped that maybe, just maybe, I’d be one of the few lucky ones to pass through this era unscathed, admired and adored, like I always was.
You see, I have become inexplicably, ridiculously, embarrassingly stupid.
Just ask my nearly-14-year-old daughters.
I’ve never subscribed to the idea that teenagers will absolutely have a phase of being disrespectful, rebellious and generally awful; I think this is just one of the many myths of our society. The number of times I’ve heard, “Oh boy, just wait until those girls are teenagers. You’re going to have fun with TWO teenage girls!,” is countless, as if cohabitation with teenagers is expected to be a recipe for misery.
I agree that teenagers can be miserable to live with. I certainly was a lot of the time. But teenagers or not, I still expect my kids to be kind, respectful and responsible. Of course they’ll have their moments; they’re going through a lot — hormonal changes, establishing independence, mood swings, mountains of homework, friend drama.
To be fair, my girls are sweet, thoughtful, helpful, caring, considerate and usually just all around lovely. But when they’re not, they’re really not. The sighs of disgust, eye rolling and general snippy-ness have become more frequent, especially this summer, as they’re forced to spend inordinate amounts of time with me and their younger brothers, all of whom evidently cause them a general feeling of annoyance.
It’s difficult adjusting to this new phase of life, one in which what I say is no longer unquestionable fact; where what I do is no longer openly admired; where my faults are becoming glaringly obvious in the eyes of teenagers trying to establish independence. Yes, it’s all part of the stretching and learning and the discovering of who they are and who they want to be, but it’s still hard for me to go from SuperMom to StupidMom.
I have a couple letters from each of the girls hanging above my desk, remnants of my glorious Mom-past. A snippet from Rachel’s long missive detailing why I’m a good mom, written when she was probably 6, in cramped, tight handwriting: “Your a really good mom I think your the best mom in the world I wish I had another mom wich makes 2 I want another mom just like you. I Don’t want any other mom in the holl world I want you your the best mom anyone could have you are really specle to me Love Rachel.”
Andie’s sweet little poems, written on a huge, hand-drawn picture of the sun and flowers: “You are the best mom that I know; I know this because you love me so,” and “I wrote this poem today; Just to make your day.”
As I was just sitting here trying to decide how to wrap this post up, Logan came in with his hands behind his back and said, “Mom, I love you so much, I brought you a surprise,” and presented me with this:
“I pulled it out by the roots so we can re-plant it and it will turn into beautiful blossoms,” he told me, giving me a hug.
Beautiful blossoms picked by my youngest child = a reminder that my glory days aren’t quite over.