I did it
Teen mom
It happened one day this week, the quiet closing of one of the longest chapters of my life. On Saturday, the youngest of my four children turned 20 and brought to an end my almost two-decade streak of parenting teenagers. During that time I questioned not only my decision to have children (and so many of them) but also whether or not I was even any good at being a mother.
If my math is correct, I have lived with someone between the ages of 13 and 19 for 17 years. That’s as long as it takes to go from infancy to receiving a high school diploma and learning how to operate a motor vehicle. And it was just about how long I was married and managed to make a mess out of a lot of things, kids included.
My kids and I went to visit my dad last month and the subject came up, how I was no longer going to be a Teen Mom, as we sat around his dining room table eating cheesesteaks. Somehow, I had added it all up in my head and deduced it had been 21 years of parenting teens and we all joked that we could buy it a beer.
My younger daughter reached towards the center of the table to grab some chips out of a bowl and said, glancing at my carefully highlighted ponytail, “And your hair didn’t even get gray.” Even my dad, sitting at the head of the table in his wheelchair, laughed at that one.
Unfortunately, my two older kids entered their teenage years just as their dad and I split and that was like the kerosene on the charcoal barbeque of hormones smoldering inside them, just waiting to ignite. Their dad moved out and that was the match striking against the side of the box. Everything just kind of exploded.
I know this from personal experience because my own parents separated when I turned 12 and by 16, I was doing some pretty bad things. Would I have been throwing beer bottles out of moving cars and letting boys climb through my bedroom window if my parents had stayed together? Maybe. But I was so angry about how those two had pulled the rug out from under my young life that I needed to channel that ball of rage that burned in my heart. I needed to do spectacularly stupid things until someone paid attention to me.
So I get the dynamics of teenage angst, but it’s much harder to be on the receiving end of it. It’s like stepping behind the plate as a major league catcher without a mitt trying to grab missiles being lobbed your way with your bare hands. Almost impossible to come away from it without getting hurt.
If I had to choose one word to describe what life was like, circa 2009, as a single mom trying to work some crazy full-time journalism job with four kids between the ages of 7 and 17, I would pick: chaos.
My older two struggled with a lot of anger and sadness, which came out in a variety of challenging ways, and the younger two were kind of left to their own devices. Every time a new issue would present itself, I’d think, “Jesus, don’t they know that my teen trouble plate is full?”
There were a lot of sad moments. There were a lot of scary moments. And of course, threre were plenty of happy moments to balance it all out. But somehow —through divine intervention, a little luck and a really good therapist — we made it through to the other side. And maybe, in a weird way, everything that we’ve been through together has brought us a little closer.
I spent last weekend down in Raleigh, NC visiting my older daughter and to go on the city’s annual holiday house tour, which we’d done together last year. I went down late Thursday night and had taken Friday off, so we had a long and leisurely weekend doing fun lady things. We got kickass massages and pedicures, took a yoga class, and browsed her favorite bookstore and talked about the books we’d recently loved or that were on our nightstands.
On Saturday, we stood in long lines on an overcast and chilly day waiting to get into the historic homes on the holiday tour that were decked out in wreaths and garlands, all the lights blazing through the windows as we stood outside. We slowly made our way through each of the homes and listened while volunteers pointed out original woodwork from the late 1800s and marveled at 10-foot-tall Christmas trees in dramatic foyers. My daughter and I pointed out things that caught our eyes — big farmhouse kitchen sinks and dreamy porch swings — and by the time we finished our ninth home, we agreed we could not muster the energy to go through the final house. We called it quits and went to eat instead.
As I sat in the airport fully masked, listening to an audiobook and waiting for my plane to arrive, I thought about my weekend with my daughter and how it had felt more like a getaway with a girlfriend than a child. I had worked really hard all weekend to keep my mouth shut about things that I know annoy her (and all my kids). I know that my words can sometimes be like sharp little darts that land in the center of their soft hearts, so I’m trying to come off as less judgy. I’m trying not to make them feel that they just don’t measure up to my standards of what my son or daughter should be and making them act out like the seventh-grade versions of themselves — which is always the worst version of any of us.
Of course, all of you parents know that we’re just trying to be helpful when we point out certain things. We just want their lives to be better. And some of that is true but also, we’re just trying to get them to be the sons or daughters we want them to be, and not just be happy with who they really are. It’s a conundrum.
But I’m getting better at it, and it’s really helping move my relationship with my grown children to the next level. To where we are more “friends” than parent and child. Last weekend we really enjoyed each other’s company and I can’t wait for her to get home for a week around Christmas.
Back in 2009, sitting on my therapist’s couch, I would write down how old and what grade each of the four kids would be in two years, five years, 10 years. She wanted me to see that there was an end in sight. That someday, they’d go to college and graduate and move out on their own (God willing). But with a long decade between the oldest and youngest kids, it felt like I was never going to get there. That I would be making taco dinners and cringing every time I saw the high school’s name come up on my caller ID for the rest of my life.
When my third child graduated from college, we had a long weekend of ceremonies and celebrations and when I pulled onto the highway to head home, my station wagon was packed with all her stuff so she could spend a few extra days with friends before heading home. I drove the four hours home in the rain (always in the rain) and thought how thankful I was that I’d never have to make that drive again. Between driving her back and forth, on top of all the driving alone I did of her older two siblings to school seven hours away, I was done with interstate highways until the youngest went to school five years later.
I thought about all the financial hoops I had to jump through and shitty writing jobs to get the three of them through college and ready to go out on their own. When I pulled into my small driveway in New Jersey, I felt like I’d crossed an imaginary finish line. I felt like an enormous weight lifted from my shoulders. “I FUCKING DID IT, “ I screamed, banging on my steering wheel. I sat alone in the car on a warm spring day and thought about how thankful I was to have gotten three kids through college. I can't imagine how I'll feel when my youngest receives his diploma in two years.
I kind of feel the same way about ushering my four children through their teenage years into adulthood. Like I have just crossed some giant cosmic finish line. I mean, I know that in life, in general, there is no finish line. But at least for this particular chapter of my life, there is.
It has been an endless slog and I’ve learned a lot, but I’m also happy to turn the page. I'm ready to be the mother of grownups. But before I do, I’ll bang on an imaginary steering wheel just one last time and remind myself: I fucking did it.
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SUNDAY SHARES: Read, watch, cook, buy
Turns out, living five blocks from the Atlantic Ocean means that it's really cold when you walk your dog in December. I recently loaded up on some toasty walking duds, courtesy of Amazon. First, these fleece-lined leggings also happen to be super comfortable if you find yourself going from your dog walk straight into your work day. This fleece-lined top is slightly more snug than I want it to be in my torso, but it's also cozy and you can't beat the price.
To complete the dog walking picture in your head, this long down coat I got from Uniqlo last year is super duper warm with a nice hood if the wind is a little extra. And I am a recent convert to the Bludstone cult and I wear mine every single day. Finally, I picked up these pricy wool socks on a recent trip to Vermont and I think I've also worn these every single day since and need another pair. I wore them under my boots for the house tour and they kept my tootsies so toasty standing on all those lines outside in the cold.
Went on a date with that new 20-year-old to see the new Avatar movie last night and it did not disappoint, even though the movie theater we drove 40 minutes to did. We've often gone to the AMC dining theater for his bday to enjoy having someone take our dinner order in the darkened theater, and it turns out they never brought it back after COVID times. We had to go order at a kiosk in the lobby and then it was delivered to us at our seats. Not the same.
I'm almost done listening to Elizabeth Strout's Anything is Possible, which is part of the Lucy Barton series and one I had missed when it came out a few years ago. I've listened to the final two which had the same narrator and her performance of Strout's words and thoughts is just so lovely. I'll be sorry when it's over and I'll have to wait a few years for her next one to come out.
I'm taking the holidays off so will see you back here in the new year! In the meantime, you can catch up on past issues and sign up to get in on the Sunday fun. I'll see you back here in 2023!
xoAmy
Wow. Thanks for reading. Seriously, you're the best.
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