Why Your Tween Suddenly Thinks You’re Weird (and What to Do About It)
I was wiping soy sauce off the stove when I heard it. Lila was curled on the living-room couch under a faded blanket, her phone pressed to her ear, voice low enough that she probably thought I couldn’t hear.
“My parents are freaking weird.”
I stopped mid-wipe. In the dining room, her father was demonstrating to her 12-year-old cousin how to peel ginger with a spoon, a skill he believed every modern person needed. Earlier that evening, he had worn a camping headlamp through the grocery store because the battery was dying and he wanted to test it before the weekend.
“Okay,” I heard her say, “but they don’t even act normal around my friends.”
I should not have listened. But I stood there with the sponge in my hand and thought about the morning drop-off. Her friend Clara had gotten into the backseat, and I’d asked three follow-up questions about Clara’s hamster. Then Lila’s dad had started singing along to a nineties song he loved, loud and off-key, while Lila stared out the window like she was planning an escape.
When she came into the kitchen a minute later, she saw my face and froze.
“You heard that,” she said.
“I did.”
She sighed, not dramatically, just tired. “I didn’t mean you could hear.”
I leaned against the counter. “Which part was weird today?”
She counted on her fingers. “Dad’s headlamp. The ginger spoon. You asked Clara about her hamster for way too long. And you made me kiss you goodbye in front of everyone.”
“They were walking past the car,” I said.
“Exactly.”
Part of me wanted to laugh. Another part wanted to point out that she used to beg us to sing in the car, that she used to hold my hand across the parking lot, that the ginger spoon was objectively useful. But I taught fifth grade for eight years before Lila was born, and I knew what this looked like. The child who used to present you to the world like a prize suddenly wants to keep you at a safe distance.
Around ages 10 to 13, the social world gets louder. Friendships shift quickly. Clothing, lunches, backpacks, and even the way a parent waves can feel like information a child did not agree to share. Lila was not rejecting us exactly. She was trying to figure out who she was when she was not with us. That work is awkward for everyone.
I remembered a student named Marcus whose dad always brought him lunch in a reused takeout container and sang a little greeting from the classroom door. Marcus would sink lower in his seat. One afternoon he told me, “I wish he’d just be normal.” I did not tell his father to stop being warm. I did suggest, during a quick parent pickup conversation, that Marcus might do better with a quieter handoff at the door. The next week, his dad started leaving the container on the front office counter with a small note. Marcus still got his lunch. He just did not have to perform his family in front of everyone.
That is the distinction I keep coming back to. We do not have to shrink ourselves or apologize for being odd. But we can change the packaging in moments where a child feels exposed.
On Sunday, Lila, her dad, and I sat at the kitchen table while pancakes cooled. I said, “We’re not going to become different people. We like our music and our weird vegetables and your dad’s emergency gadgets. But drop-off and pickup can be easier.”
We made a short list. We could drop her at the corner instead of the main entrance if she wanted. No singing with the windows down in the car line. One quick goodbye inside the car, no announcements. If we were doing something that felt like too much in public, she could say “pinecone” and we would stop, no questions asked. In return, she did not get to be rude. Eye-rolling was acceptable. “This is awkward” was acceptable. “Shut up” was not.
Her dad added, “I will keep the headlamp in the car unless there is an actual emergency.”
“Define emergency,” Lila said.
“Not ‘I cannot find the olives.’”
She almost smiled.
We also kept the things that belong inside the house. He still peels ginger with a spoon. I still ask too many questions about her friends’ pets, though now I sometimes save them for the drive home. Bad music still plays in the kitchen. She may roll her eyes, but she usually stays in the room.
For teachers and caregivers, the same idea applies in small ways. If a child hides a homemade lunch, do not announce it or tease them about loving their mother’s cooking. Offer a plain paper bag or let them sit where they feel comfortable. If a student does not want to share a family story in front of the class, let them write it instead. A simple sentence works: “You don’t have to explain it. Let me know if you want something different.”
A few weeks after the phone call, Lila’s dad picked her up from school in the old car. The headlamp was on his head because he had forgotten to take it off after fixing his bike. I saw her freeze on the sidewalk. Then she looked at him, said “pinecone,” and he flicked the light off without saying a word. She got in the car.
Later, I heard her tell a friend, “My dad can fix literally anything. He’s kind of a dork, but he’s useful.”
I am choosing to take that as progress.
Last week, she asked us to drop her at the corner for the first time. We did. She got out, adjusted her backpack, and walked toward the school without turning around. Her dad gripped the steering wheel and said, “That corner is very far away.” I nodded. But when I picked her up, she climbed into the front seat, asked for a snack, and told me the entire drama of math class, including who sat where and who was being unreasonable.
So we are still weird. We are just learning where the weirdness is welcome and where it needs to wait in the car. Some weeks she wants the corner. Some weeks she forgets and hugs me through the open window. I assume next month will bring a new rule, and the month after that another one. We will keep adjusting, one headlamp and ginger spoon at a time.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » Why Your Tween Suddenly Thinks You’re Weird (and What to Do About It)