I used to think I nailed parenting—now I’m just begging for advice on my teenager
This morning I stood outside my 14-year-old’s bedroom holding a warm chocolate chip muffin I detoured 10 minutes out of my way to get from that bakery he likes by the dog park. I knocked soft, turned the handle just a crack, and before I could even say “good morning” he yelled “CAN YOU GET OUT” and slammed the door right in my face. The muffin bounced a little in the paper bag. I stood there for a second, then turned around and walked downstairs, and the dog looked up at me like “what did you do wrong” and I just shrugged.
People keep telling me this is normal. I know it’s normal. When he was two and threw tantrums over having the wrong color cup, everyone said “just wait until they’re teenagers” and I’d laugh and think how bad can it be? Turns out bad is just… different. It’s not the screaming in the cereal aisle that humiliated you back then. It’s the quiet, the slamming doors, the way he can go from asking me to braid his hair for a friend’s concert on Saturday to acting like I’m a contagious disease if I so much as wave at him when I drop him off at school.
I find half-empty blue Gatorade bottles everywhere. On the landing of the stairs, under the passenger seat of my car, tucked between the couch cushions, even once in the linen closet next to the extra sheets. They get sticky, they attract ants, I’ve asked him a hundred times to throw them away when he’s done. Last week I pointed one out to him, sitting by the front door, and he sighed so loud I swear the walls shook, like I’d just asked him to defuse a bomb. “I’ll get it later,” he said, and then left it there for three more days. I pick it up eventually, I always do, and then I feel mad at myself for being mad over a stupid Gatorade bottle. It’s just a bottle, right? But it adds up.
Last week we went to pick up groceries, and my mom was with us, and she asked for a quick photo of the three of us for her fridge. I turned to ask Jake, and he just ducked behind the Cheerios display and wouldn’t come out. I stood there holding my grocery list, my face getting hot, and my mom said “it’s okay, honey, we’ll do it another time” but I wanted to crawl into the display with him. Later I asked him why he did that, and he just mumbled “that’s embarrassing” and wouldn’t say more. I didn’t push. But when do I push and when do I leave it alone? That’s the question I can’t answer.
A month ago he came home from school, threw his bag down, and didn’t say a word for three hours. I remembered all the things I’ve read online: teens need space, don’t push them to talk before they’re ready. So I left him alone, made dinner, didn’t bug him. That night I was putting laundry away, and I saw his math test tucked under his notebook, a 52 scrawled at the top. He’d studied for that test for two weeks, quizzed himself on the porch every night after dinner. He’d been so sure he’d pass, and he failed, and he was sitting in his room hurting, and I was down here watching reruns of The Office, because I was scared pushing would make him shut down more. Was that wrong? I don’t know. If I’d knocked and asked what was wrong, he would have said “nothing” and told me to leave anyway, right? I can’t win here.
I used to judge other parents, I’ll admit it. Ten years ago I saw a mom yell at her teen at the mall for ignoring her, and I thought I’d never be that mom. I’d be the cool mom that my kid could talk to about anything. Now I’ve yelled about Gatorade bottles, I’ve yelled about the wet towel he leaves on the clean bed after showering, I yelled last week because he ate the last of the mint chocolate chip ice cream I’d hidden in the back of the freezer after a terrible day at work. Then I sat on the stairs outside his room for 20 minutes after, feeling like the worst mom in the world, because he’s a kid, he likes ice cream, what’s wrong with me?
It’s not all bad, I should say that. Last Saturday it was pouring rain, all his friends were busy, he didn’t have any plans. He came out of his room after lunch, didn’t say anything, just sat down on the other end of the couch next to me. I was watching Spirited Away, the one we watched a hundred times when he was little, and he just watched it with me, ate half the bowl of popcorn I had. Halfway through he leaned his head over on my shoulder for, like, two whole minutes. Then he sat back up fast, like he remembered he wasn’t supposed to do that, and pretended to be super interested in his phone. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I still don’t know if that was the right call. Should I have mentioned it later? Said it was nice, that I missed that? I didn’t, because I was scared he’d never do it again if I called attention to it.
I’ve read all the articles, I’ve listened to my friends who have older kids tell me what to do, it all sounds so easy. Set clear boundaries, don’t take it personally, give them space. But boundaries turn into three-day silent treatments, not taking it personally gets really hard when you’re the one he’s mad at all the time, space starts to feel like he doesn’t need me anymore. I don’t need a perfect step-by-step plan. I don’t need someone to tell me it all works out in the end, though I guess I wouldn’t mind hearing that from someone who actually means it. I just… want to know, what do you do when you can’t tell the line between giving them what they need and losing the kid you used to have? How do you not screw this up? Because right now, I’m just making it up one sticky Gatorade bottle and one awkward door slam at a time, and I could really use a little real advice from someone who’s been here.
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