I stormed out of the house in the freezing cold with my husband’s wool coat thrown over my pajamas looking like a Disney character with long floppy coat arms at my sides and fluffy slippers that I was sorry I’d worn. They didn’t see me standing squarely in front of the car. I positioned myself like that guy who stopped the tanks in Tiananmen Square and I slapped both of my hands on the hood, still warm because he’d only just brought her home from the date. Late. Past curfew. Way past curfew.
Before I turn back to the house, I see the shock on their faces. Actually, hers was a look of horror—not that she’d been busted but that I was standing there like a mad woman in front of her precious boyfriend and God forbid I do anything to embarrass her. This was, even I knew, over the top. I fumed back up the walk to the kitchen, where I waited for the showdown.
What she didn’t know was that my stomach was as knotted as hers. When she came in moments later, her chin red from making out with her boyfriend, I felt a wave of nausea at what I knew was to come. But, thankfully, I could tell from her footsteps toward me that she had chosen the right track to take. Her feet moved sheepishly. Scuffling. Slowly. Her boyfriend must have told her she couldn’t win this one. On his advice, she was doing the right thing. I knew it wasn’t the lectures we’d given her on the rules of the house or making smart choices.
That was one of dozens of similar nights with similar fights over similar infractions. Because that’s a teenager’s job: to infuriate an adult is duty number one. And a parent’s job is to let them do it. A parent’s job, I learned, is to be the brick wall the teenager can push up against. A parent’s job is to be unpopular sometimes. And it’s hard to be unpopular.
Raising a teenager is one of the toughest things you can do and if people tell you different, they’re either lying or they’re sitting ducks for what is to inevitably come their way later on. But it’s like chicken pox—better to get all this over with when they’re young. Hunker down and let them rage. But not for too long. Let them fight. But not too hard or physically—ever. Let them test you. Over and over again until you think they might be brain dead because what else could explain why they can’t seem to remember the simple basic tenants you’ve outlined for them.
My situation was not the classic one.
