Teen Mom, Too.

I’m no newbie. I’ve been around this block. My oldest, a boy, is two, maybe three years into puberty. He now stands taller than my 5’9″ frame. His shoe size shadows 13. That sweet scent of watermelon shampoo no longer trails after him; it’s been replaced by a peppery perspiration that never quite softens. At times he’s goofy to the point of near mania. He’s witty and sharp and politically astute. As a high school sophomore, he divides his eager pursuits — not equally — between soccer, girls, and academics. — 

So I’ve observed the teen. I know their behaviors. Like a keeper at the zoo, I expect the unexpected. After years of lifting chubby toddlers, pushing broken strollers, and belting car seats, I welcome this, the less physical side of parenting. Still, I thought I’d have a bit of breathing room before my daughter entered the fray. Yet, here she is, a full-fledged teen at age 11.

Physically, she’s still a little girl. She’s the tiniest in her group. And there are moments when she’s still my little girl; kissing and hugging and curling up in my arms. But there are other moments, flashes really, when eyes roll, jaws jut, feet stomp, leaving me certain that either a) she’s her own evil twin or b) I’m in the wrong apartment.

I now know being a teen is less about age and more about attitude.

We argue more than we did in years past. I suppose that’s because she’s gaining the confidence to question my say-so. And I’ve learned I don’t really like when my say-so is questioned. The beauty of parenting the 3- to 10-year-old set is they generally follow your direction. That reign of reason ends abruptly when your child becomes a teen.

My daughter’s friendship circle is unwieldy. Fourteen girls, bound together, in a fluid, turbulent sea of emotion. There’s constant conflict. Mad crushes. Hurt feelings. Rotating BFF’s. There’s always a movie, a sleepover, or a multiple kid playdate she has to attend. Initially, I thought she pleaded to go to every, single gathering because she’s chatty and social. And she is. But she’s anxious, too. Anxious that if she misses even one event, she’ll be the one being chatted about. An early lesson on gossip’s downside. And with Facebook, AIM, and texting always at one’s fingertips, stirring the pot has never been easier.

One of the earliest mantras I chanted with my kids was: Use your words. (Use your words! Use your words! Use your words!) I guess it still applies. They’re growing and changing and hardly recognizable as their former selves, but their meltdowns are sort of the same. They’re in the process of becoming who they’ll be next, and it isn’t easy (for any of us). So what else can we do, but use our words? I push them to talk (usually after I’ve given myself a much-needed time out) because the face I’m seeing — whether it’s sad, or angry, or sneering — doesn’t always tell the entire story.

Anyway, I think I’ll be really good at parenting teens next year, when my 8-year old joins the pack.