A Mutha

I am 18 years old.  Well, my brain feels 18 years old.  I am actually, technically, 42 years old. The incredibly unfair thing about parenting is that you (the parent) are actually still a young person in an older person's body. And…you are a complete DRAG…to your kids.

I look at my two children as one is entrenched in and the other is rapidly approaching the teenage years, and the inner know-it-all teenager in me is screaming: “I get it! I GET it! I REALLY DO!!  Don’t roll your eyes at me!  I am older, but I AM ONE OF YOU!

I am a seasoned pro. I excelled at being a teenager. I used to troll for boys sitting on the rock wall of my church. I blew a stop sign one night and came within milliseconds of God only knows what.  I have skinny dipped. I have inhaled, snuck out of the house, skipped a LOT of school, ran from the police and…before I go any further…let’s just leave it at that and say that I am well aware of what it feels like to be a teenager.

Sadly, none of that matters. I am not a teenager in 2011. And in my children’s eyes,  I am sure I appear old and that I could not possibly understand what it's like.

The other day, as my son was packing for a week long trip that he was taking with his best friend to Maine, we got into an argument about the proper way to pack.  My son did not like my recommendation to bring a backpack in addition to his suitcase to take care of some smaller items, as he and his friend were going to be in air-soft gun tournament while in Maine. Air-soft paraphenalia is plentiful and consists of some small pieces, made to be misplaced.  He insisted that it would be acceptable to just lay them out individually in the car.  Not my car, mind you, his best friend’s grandfather’s car. He was the one hosting and driving them to Maine.

For real?

“No, hunny, you can’t do that.” I said, “You are not the only one in the car taking stuff with you. I am sure it would be easier to bring them in your backpack.  Now, go get it.”

“This is how I did it last year.” He defended, meticulously laying them out on the counter in the kitchen.

“I don’t care how you did it last year, this year you will be taking all of those little pieces in a backpack.” I said, “Now, please go get the backpack.”  He went to respond again and I put my index finger up in the air as if to say ‘wait a second who do you think you are talking to?’ and he stopped with a huff and stomped through the house and up the stairs to his bedroom. Who does that? Who puts their finger in the air?! A rancid old mother, that’s who!

“Why do you have to tell me how to pack?” my frustrated son asked as he returned with the backpack.

‘Because I have been packing for 30 plus years and you’ve been packing for all of about 10 minutes." 

Yes, of course, I played the “Mother knows best card.” I am after all, a Mother. The teenager in me absolutely hated myself.

Wouldn’t it have just been great if I could have just let him go and find out for himself after he loses one of those valuable items in his air-soft gun arsenal? Shouldn’t I have just let him learn from his mistakes instead of being a “helicopter mother”? Wasn’t that a ‘teaching moment’ that I just let slip by?

I often get a sinking feeling in my stomach after an altercation with either of my kids and this time was no exception. I let guilt take over and I imagine what it was that I should of said that would have made me ever so slightly cooler. I should have said something like this:

“Hunny, those small, valuable little items would be much better suited in a backpack, but let’s see how your idea works first.”

Whatever.

I hear that after the teenage years are over, that children come back.  That kids that grow into adults return with some sort of inner apology and wrap their arms around you and say “You were a great Mother” and they really mean it. They get it.  Or maybe it happens when they have their own children.

One thing that I know for certain is that while being my child’s friend sounds fabulous, I am first and foremost their parent.

A nagging thorn in their side…A cramp in their style…A thwart in their evil plan.

 Hopefully, I am as much of a friend and confidant that I can possibly be to my own offspring, without ‘losing cred’. My children have many friends. My job, while less glamourous, is to be the tortured teenager in the adults body and the annoying voice in the back of their mind.

The little argument between my son and I is a small representation of what happens in day to day life.  Of course on occasion as well as in the future, the disagreements will get bigger, more meaningful, more heated.  The biggest lesson that I am learning is that force creates resistance. The more I push, the more my children will push away.

So my new motto is “Pick Your Battles Wisely”.  I need to let my children lose their most valuable treasures on occasion, so that I can keep mine.