I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
October 18, 2008
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The mom sitting beside me at the soccer game scrolled through the pictures on her digital camera and sighed. Photo after photo featured self-portraits of her daughter, mugging for the camera. I giggled.
“This is my memory card,” the mom said. “Not her memory card. Mine.” She sighed again.
It was a sigh heard often at gatherings where parents of teens are present. In fact, a good part of bonding with other teens’ moms and dads involves complaining about those wacky adolescents. They stay out too late. They wear that godawful shade of lipstick. They have the wrong kinds of friends. They don’t know the meaning of hard work. And on and on and on.
Of course, I get it. Living with teenagers is frustrating, since the very people who worshipped you just five years ago now think you’re about as smart as a frog in the road. We hurt, just as we would if anyone else we loved suddenly decided we weren’t so great after all. And we share our pain with others in our position by complaining about trivial things, things that on some level represent a much deeper pain.
At the same time, looking at all of those pictures on my friend’s digital camera, it was hard to imagine a time when I’d be annoyed by Punky doing the same thing. I look around me right now and see Brusier’s latest Toy Trail of Terrorâ„¢. And I love it. I can look out on my back deck from where I stand and spot long trails of sidewalk chalk “decorating” the wooden posts and a pile of rotted osage oranges (or “nasty fruit,” as Punky calls them) that my daughter has dutifully collected and placed on the deck for us to clean up later. It all means more work for me, but am I irritated? Not a bit. I revel in it. I adore it. I sort of wish it would last forever.
And it floors me to think that one day, my kids’ school books and makeup compacts and coats and hats strewn about the house will probably drive me batty. Their “naughtiness” one day will deeply worry me, rather than make me fight back a smile. And while I giggle now at their baby babble, I will suffer through their teen lingo; all parents do.
If they were to take dozens of pictures of themselves now on my memory card, I’d burst with pride and post some of them on my blog. Do it ten years from now, though, and I will probably sigh deeply and shake my head.
I’ve written this before, but it’s sage advice, so I’ll repeat it. My mother told me that part of being a teenager involves making his or her parents so crazy that they can’t wait for the teen to be on her own and see how it really is. At the same time, part of a parent’s job is to seem so irritating and unyielding that the teenager can’t wait to be on her own. If these things didn’t happen, no one would ever grow up and move out. This always puts things in perspective for me when the parent/teen struggle gets too personal and my feelings are raw.
But it’s hard to imagine all this now, when I look at Bruiser and Punky. Perhaps the difference is that for all their screaming and their mess making, they treat me like I’m the most important person in their little world. That, as every parent knows, feels really, really good.
Perhaps if they didn’t think that, this disaster area would lose its charm altogether.
All I can do is enjoy it while it lasts, because I know from experience that it won’t last long. And so I try to appreciate every single small moment of it. Every day.
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
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