5 PARENT TRAP

I thought raising teenagers would be like an episode of That ’70s Show—groovy kids chilling in the basement, trying to navigate acne, dating, and getting their driver’s licenses. I thought I would be the corny parent who popped in every once in a while to ask the right questions and sometime state a good lesson. My kids would come to me with their problems and look to all my wisdom and experience with respect and adoration. They would want to hang out with me because… tattoos. I am the cool mom, remember?

I would like to suggest that raising teenagers is more like an episode of Law & Order, except there is no law or order in the day-to-day interactions in my home anymore. The plots revolve around moral, ethical, or personal dilemmas, and all parties’ lives hang in the balance. Mommy’s life hangs out in her bedroom screaming into a pillow.

Raising a hormonal teenager is like folding a fitted sheet. No one really knows how to do it, and shoving it in the closet is the only possible solution. It was just a few years ago that my children thought I hung the moon. My daughter wanted to be me, and my son just wanted to be near me. ALL. THE. TIME. Now they criticize my every move and apparently can’t make complete sentences when I ask them a question. The eye rolls are so big I can hear them. Can I just tag out for a few years and wait until they show up for that first Thanksgiving of their first year of college? They will appreciate me then, surely. The baby stage was the most exhausting, but the teenage years are the most frustrating. I have a serious case of FOMO: fear of mothering out. I have no more mothering to give.

I wish I had a dime for every book and article I read to prepare for the arrival of a baby so I could afford to buy the bigger book about raising freakin’ teenagers. On Becoming Babywise and What to Expect When You’re Expecting did not address this stage. I wish there had been a book called What to Expect When You Least Expect It. That would have been more helpful. I loved the baby stage. I was born with a baby doll in my arms. Every childhood picture of me has a baby doll in it. Give me all the babies to hold. Give me all the diapers and burp cloths. I loved it all so much and would do it over a million times. If I wouldn’t gain eighty pounds or grow a new set of hemorrhoids, I would volunteer to be a surrogate. But then they grow up. Oh, sure, I can still tell you the proper breastfeeding techniques that helped my babies to latch on every time, but right about now, all I can think about is how to get them to unlatch and get a job. Mommy’s done feeding you now.

The pressure of the infant stage was unbearable—all the moms judging themselves, judging others, and offering unsolicited advice—now all of our kids live on Cheetos and Kool-Aid. We are all on a level playing field. Look here, Lisa, if you have told me once, you have told me a million times about breastfeeding your twins until they were two. We applaud you. We really do. You have hung your hat on that accomplishment, but let’s move on, sister, we are all just trying to keep them out of jail now. It takes a village, not your breast milk.

Something happens when you become a mom that no one tells you about. Once that baby leaves your body, a whole new personality takes over. That personality is ridden with fear that it has never known. Before children, I used to look at older women and wonder when they stopped having fun and when they became so overbearing. Then I became a mom. My brain no longer whipped out information on the fly; it became sluggish like a computer that hasn’t been updated in a while. You start saying things like “Be careful” ALL THE TIME, ON REPEAT. You stay two steps ahead of your wobbly toddler who is still learning to walk. You see the sharp corner on the eye-level glass table long before your child sees it. You become Superwoman and super tired. Keeping them alive is the first part. Giving them a good life is the second part of parenthood that makes us become unrecognizable. We all work so hard to protect them and go to great lengths to give them a good life, “better than the one we had growing up.”

It is a trap. It is a comparison trap. Parenthood is a bill of goods that, if we are not careful, we also sell to our children. The parenthood trap can make us believe that life is about all the stuff and all the power we have to provide the stuff. We take our insecurities about our worth as adults and project them onto our children’s little lives. We squeeze man-sized problems into adolescent-sized dreams. We live to satisfy our little creatures while we have puke on our shirts and caffeine in our hands. Parents will stop at nothing to help their children succeed. Parents will do anything to keep their kids on top. Parents will do whatever it takes to give them a leg up. But what happens when our children are no longer the center of our universe? When they are adults? When our children are now the parents? How can they make the switch?

Now, I’ve already told you I was an only child, but I am not sure you fully understand the magnitude of that statement. I wouldn’t necessarily say I was spoiled with material possessions, but I was the center of my parents’ universe. If you want to really know someone, all you have to do is ask them about their family’s Christmas traditions when they were a kid. Go ahead, do it. That is when all the crazy comes out—family memories knit together by quirky traditions. It’s no wonder we all need counseling.

My parents went to such great lengths to convince me that Santa was real that they hired a friend to dress as Santa and come into our home on Christmas Eve. TAKE THAT, Elf on a Shelf! You have nothing on my parents! The rent-for-hire Santa was instructed to make enough noise to wake me up, so I could catch him in the flesh by our Christmas tree. And just as they suspected, I found him. Caught him red-handed in our living room. My parents had the best intentions, but those intentions resulted in the adult me believing this was all crap and I was not making my children believe if they didn’t want to. Why? Because the emotional damage and embarrassment that believing in Santa well up into the fifth grade caused me is not something I wanted to bestow on my own offspring.

Because I am an only child, I feel a lot of pressure to satisfy my parents’ expectations of a family Christmas even though I have my own children now. I fear that if we don’t visit their home, they “won’t have Christmas.”

Last Christmas, the three of us arrived at their home to find my mom busy as a bee in the kitchen. It smelled like a delicious Southern holiday home. Whiffs of chicken pot pie and green bean casserole. Can you smell it now?

“Don’t touch that food. It’s not for you.”

Ummm, excuse me? Whiplash. “Last I checked, I am your child, and you are my mom. There’s an unwritten rule somewhere that whenever I am here, regardless of my age, whatever you have is now mine—no questions asked.”

Except this day, Glenda was having none of it. There was no sharing, because this food was for Mr. Bill. “His wife told me that this is his favorite recipe.”

“Mom, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Mr. Bill died two days ago.”

But she already knew that, because she makes food for all the deceased folks’ families in that little town upon their earthly exit.

My mom was tending to these dishes so gently and tenderly that you would have thought a food critic from Bon Appetit magazine was sitting in her dining room. She was wiping the edges, freeing them from crumbs and overflow. She was using her best plates and serving pieces. I stood there in amazement and flat-out jealousy. Can I be dead right now? Can you feed me like you are feeding corpses right now? That Christmas, a dead person’s family got all the goods. And there I was acting like a spoiled little child who was going to die of starvation. See, even as adult children, we have roles to play with our parents where we have needs and they are expected to meet them. On time, every time. The parent trap.

We buy presents we can’t afford. Decorate the house with so many lights the Griswolds file a complaint to the homeowners association. We all know the lady who has a Christmas tree in every room, Christmas-themed shower curtains, Christmas-themed toilet paper that she hand-stamps with a Christmas stamp and then rolls it back onto the spool. There’s one in every bunch. And I am sure her adult kids hate Christmas now. All in the spirit of giving our children a good life. Holidays are just one example.

In the ’80s, the tooth fairy was on minimum wage at best. She didn’t have much change to spare for snaggletoothed children. That one dollar she left was big money for me. I probably spent it on a Punky Brewster poster for my bedroom. These days, moms are expected to account for inflation, and the tooth fairy is running at ten to twenty dollars per tooth. “Hey, at least I am teaching my children about economics,” thinks every mom when shoving a twenty-dollar bill under her child’s pillow.

Then there are the class parties. Oh, boy. Moms (and dads) hanging out in elementary classrooms like they have never before seen sweet little Mackenzie lick the blue frosting off a cupcake. There’s the mom who needs to prove her crafting skills and the mom with the themed goodie bags filled with homemade treats, properly labeled (with a custom monogram) to identify her kid. Kids love class parties, I get it. And some of you parents love them, too. All I am asking is that you sign me up to bring the plates and napkins. And if they have to match the party theme, I am bouncing. Send me a bill.

Take a stroll down to the Little League baseball fields and you will find exhausted parents who spend every weekend and every last cent traveling with their son’s competitive baseball team. Hotel rooms, meals, dragging little sister along, all for helping a child pursue a passion. When I was eight, I only had one passion: my Get in Shape Girl tape and my pink Jambox. You hear me?

Prior to my divorce and a few years after, I decided homeschooling was my life’s calling. In my mind, homeschooling was a great option for stability and flexibility alike. The kids could be home with me all day. No more running around on someone else’s schedule. Life would now be on our time frame. It really gave me a sense of control over one aspect of my otherwise chaotic home. Or maybe it was my attempt to get out of those pesky class party obligations. Yeah, sure, we had class parties during homeschooling. Hey, kids, let’s go eat Mexican for lunch and tell them it’s my birthday! Now I have no idea what grade they are in. I just go by their height and weight. They “look” like they should be in seventh and ninth grade. What used to be “Muffins with Mom” will now be “Mimosas with Mom.” What used to be “Donuts with Dad” is now “Do Not Tell Your Dad.” I used to drop them off at school with their backpack and a lunch box, and then I started dropping them off at Kroger with a list and my debit card.

I am fortunate to have my children’s father participating in this game of parenthood, and even though we are divorced, we are still raising these hoodrats together. We knew that even though our marriage ended, our parenting force did not. We have both brought new love into our lives, and God knows it was for the best, because now the four of us can run a double-down defense. I raise my glass (of prosecco) to all you single ladies grinding through this parenthood trap. You are the real heroes. You need the cape. Heck, you need to be writing all the books. (And if any of you have any teenager advice, throw it my way.)

I have just started this teenage journey and have more years ahead of me than behind me. I have never felt so crazy, so bipolar, in all my life than right now with these teenagers in my home. One day, I am all “You are never ever coming out of your room, mister, you will have no friends, no driver’s license, no life everrrrrrrr.” Two days later: “Here’s twenty bucks, take the golf cart and go treat your friends to some ice cream. You don’t have to come home, but you can’t stay here. Beat it.”

I am not totally sure, but I think they can call my bluff now. I am a pushover; they make the rules, I just live here.

What happened to us, people? Where did we go wrong? When I was growing up, we all feared the sound of our daddy’s belt flying through the loops of his Levi’s. We knew the smackdown was coming if we talked back. We knew we had to be home when the streetlights came on. We knew that our parents were in charge and should be feared. And if you said your mama’s name one too many times, she grew horns and shut the place down. They never came to our schools because the principal could also bring the smackdown with his paddle on their behalf—our teachers and principals were just an extension of the enforcers at home. And while I am on the subject, being a teacher has to be the hardest job on the planet. These superhuman individuals give their heart and soul to mastering an academic subject and then spend all the days of their lives raising our rotten children. And if the rotten children aren’t bad enough, teachers then have to put up with parents making accusations and criticizing them for giving their kids bad grades and discipline that they deserve. Our children are not the victims of teachers; our children are the victims of jerk parents.

Our parents didn’t coddle us during a scuffle with our friends. No, they told us to rub dirt in it and keep going. They were a force to be reckoned with. Now we walk our kids into school, shameless in our SpongeBob pajama pants, to protect them from tripping or stubbing their toes. They all have trophies. They all make the team. They won’t know hurt if we can help it. Because it hurts us to see them hurt.

When we are supposed to be at our best, the weight of parenthood piles up and takes us down. We take on all the guilt, shame, and judgment of who we think we should be. Do you lock yourself in the bathroom so they won’t see you cry tears of insanity and utter exhaustion? I know I have more times than I can count.

I have come to realize that I have only one job in this parenting trap: to show them what love looks like. One goal. Their dad and I did a really bad job of this for many years, but thank God for second chances and third chances and one-thousandth chances. To show them love means to show grace, forgiveness, kindness, respect, and humility. That applies to everyone. Now, let me preach for just a second. If we could see the world through the lens of grace, how much better would we all be? Grace for ourselves and grace to those who may not look like us. Offer forgiveness to people who make mistakes and hurt us. Kindness to strangers and respect for those who have absolutely nothing to offer us in return. And if we can be humble and own the mess, there’s nothing that love can’t endure.

The truth is, we can’t do it all. Moms, are you listening? All the matching outfits and hair bows for family pics, the magazine-worthy home, the French lessons followed by dance classes and the science camps. Kids don’t need us to chew out their teachers or referees to ace a class or win a game. Are kids even allowed to flunk a test in school anymore? Kids don’t need us at class parties with pumpkin-shaped Rice Krispies Treats. We can’t do it all, be at all the things, make all the treats. I would dare say that our kids don’t need or even want us to. They want security and safety and warm arms filled with love when they flunk a test or strike out. Kids need us to show them how to navigate this world. Kids need us to help them find their identities and affirm them. Our kids need us to love. They just want love. Love will give our kids confidence. Love will give them security. Love will give them safety. Love will give them joy. Love will give them life.

Just love them.