A MOTHER’S TEEN ANGST
By Cheryl Gochnauer
Cheryl@homebodies.org
Copyright 2003
Something wonderful happened this summer
between me and my 15-year-old daughter. It may sound unbelievable,
but I think I actually LIKE this girl!
Parents of elementary kids and under may
be saying to themselves, “What’s she talking about?” But those
in the teen trenches will tell you - it ain’t easy nudging
these overgrown gangly birds onto the right flight path. They’re
perfectly ready to jump out of the nest; that’s not the problem.
It’s the way they land with a thud or go “SPLAT” as they dive
right into the nearest wall. (Which you’ve been pointing out
as a hazard since they were six. But do they listen? Of course
not. You’re just their mom.)
Since I’m a so-called parenting expert (a
title I cherished until my daughter hit puberty and all the
wheels fell off), it’s been humbling to find myself regularly
washed up on Beats Me Beach. (“Why do they do the things they
do?” “Beats me.”)
One of the benefits of being a stay-at-home
mom is that you’re around to irritate your teen all the time.
You’re constantly there to provide direction (that they don’t
take), suggestions (that they don’t follow) and protection
(that they dodge as much as possible).
At least it seems that way. Until the day
arrives when you realize they were listening, after all. Not
to the angry words or threats or temper; they tuned those
out, and rightfully so. But somewhere in the flak they snagged
chunks of advice that worked, most of which were sprinkled
with large doses of parental love. And – amazing as it may
seem – you’ve been listening, too. Somewhere along the way,
you’ve found some middle ground where the two of you can do
more than co-exist. You can respect and – surprise! - even
enjoy each other.
I used to comfort myself by saying, “Only
six … only five … only four more years, and she’s outta here.”
Now I think, “Only three more years, and she’s outta here,”
but I’ve got a completely different expression on my face.
I like this girl. I really, really like her.
I suspect she’ll send me and her daddy through
the blender a few more times before she leaves, but I have
a feeling the worst is over.
Of course, I haven’t handed her the car keys
yet.
