I Was Told to Dread the Teen Years. Then 35 Cross Country Runners Left Their Shoes in My Doorway.
I almost cried. You have so much to look forward to.
My phone buzzed with an incoming text from Ruby, my sixteen-year-old high school junior.
It was cold on Tuesday afternoon. It was the first day I pulled out my favorite blue beanie and grey wool sweater. I was sitting on the comfy corduroy couch in my den, one dog smooshing me into the corner with his big furry paws tapping me every time I stopped rubbing his flank with my socked foot. The other one sitting politely on the ground, snoozing peacefully. I was furiously typing away on my laptop, trying to cram in the last few minutes of work before I had to switch gears and get dinner going for my girls.
I’m barely treading water right now between work and kids and life. I’m not even kidding when I say that some days it feels like if one more person asks me for one more thing, no matter how big or how small, I might just actually keel over. Even the laundry pile in the basement feels like it’s mocking me.
(I know… I’m working on it. But balance when you’re a multi-passionate ADHD’r isn’t really a thing.)
Anyway, beating away the thought in my brain telling me to let someone else take this one, I grinned, and said an emphatic yes. It’s not like I was going to actually cook the meal. (Horrible cook over here. Like, really bad.)
My oldest is also a distance runner who ran in high school for three years. So, I’ve hosted a team dinner or two (that’s sarcasm, I’ve hosted close to a dozen). I mostly know what I’m doing. I can pull it together with one hand tied behind my back.
But experienced or not, hosting a team dinner is expensive, and it takes a lot of effort to pull off.
I only have a few dinners left. Some parents would find relief in that. I understand why. But for me, it feels different.
Because one thing about me? I’m a “little kids” kinda person. I studied early childhood, I taught nursery school, I wrote an entire book about play and childhood. I am comfortable with paint on my hands, playdough under my fingernails and calling the stale goldfish in my backseat lunch.
I dreaded the teenage years. I listened with wide eyes when the slightly older moms at the store saw me struggling with a crying five year old and toddler running down the aisles and said, “Just wait until they’re teens.” Or, “Bigger kids, bigger problems…” You know the drill, I’m sure.
The next day..
Order food for 35 kids and make sure they can deliver on time. Check.
Clean, vacuum, move all the crap that is currently living on my dining room table.
Pull out every single stool, ottoman, folding chair, anything that even slightly resembles a place to sit. This is always the tough one and they literally end up sitting on the floor no matter what. Remind me for next time.
Hit up Stop and Shop for drinks and desserts.
I knew I could do it.
I worked until one, raced to Stop and Shop, came home and snapped at my husband to stop crunching crackers in my kitchen. I had too much shit to do in too little time. He obliged.
And before I knew it, the first kids were rolling in the door, freshly showered from practice, wearing their cozies. Sweats, pj pants, Uggs.
Year after year. It’s the same. They come in shy and polite, tentatively scooping pasta onto plates, and within fifteen minutes the house is packed with laughter, shoving, music, and the very distinct smell that is teenagers.
And I love it.
They ate from paper plates piled high with bread, pasta and salad and tall, lanky, almost (but not yet) men clicked together the magnetic cubes I’d left on the table.
Guys and girls sprawled across my living room floor screaming with laughter as they played competitive rounds of this fast paced card game.
One group sat around the glass table in the den, leaned in, clicking wheelies together in patterns, having real conversations, face to face. They lingered well past 8pm, drifting in and out of rooms, mingling, teasing and snacking on Halloween candy that I’d grabbed at the last minute.
When everyone had gone home, I picked up the few forgotten paper plates and candy wrappers from tables and carpets. As I wandered through the house, I was overcome with gratitude for the good fortune that landed me here.
And I will not lie. When my high school junior was in middle school, I saw a mom sweating and cursing under her breath as she attempted to strap her flailing, screaming three-year-old into the car seat after a spilled ice cream cone incident at the beach, and I thought to myself, I wish a spilled ice cream cone and an embarrassing scream fest were our biggest problem right now. BUT I DIDN’T SAY IT OUT LOUD.. Hello?
I love raising teenagers. And ten years ago, if anyone told me I’d feel this way now, I’d never have believed them. I’ve learned so much about myself, my parenting, my insecurities. Strengths I didn’t know I had emerged alongside my growing teens.
And while I must admit to myself that I am on the back nine of my turn to host team dinners and have high schoolers in the house (Thank god for my Sloane, who is in 7th grade!!), I also really look forward to my house swelling up with my kids and their people as they grow into adults. And maybe they’ll have life partners and pets and children, and I will get to welcome them.
Knowing that my girl could say, “I’ll ask my mom, I bet she’ll say yes” when a teammate had to cancel at the last minute, was exactly why I’ve hosted countless playdates, dinners, snacks and backyard fire pits for my kids and their friends for the last 19 years. Team dinners and teenager hangs look very different from the preschool playdates. But I think that they were the foundation of having an open door policy at home now. I wrote everything I know about playdates, including a few can’t miss activities, what to do with siblings, and snacks, RIGHT HERE.
This morning, when I opened my computer to clear my emails and meet my deliverables, I found myself instead writing this letter to the moms of littles who might be dreading the big kid years. And I just wanted to tell you that raising my teens and watching them fly away continues to be the most raw and fulfilling stage of parenting so far.
And I am really grateful to share it with you. Thanks for being here and for reading what I write. x Lizzie
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