There’s an important right of passage that happens to moms raising teenage girls: it’s called: we become them. Call it wanting to reclaim your youth, call it what you will (um, pathetic?) but apparently it’s what a mom needs to go through in order to not get completely out of touch. Sometimes for example, when my daughter goes to her dads I use her room as a getaway boudoir to reminisce about my own days as an awkward, pimply teenager. Whereas she is edgy and waits for Tyler The Creator to ‘drop merch’, I was a dark hippy with handcuffs on my headboard. Whereas I was essentially failing out of school, she’s obsessed with her grades to the last fraction of a percentage point.
3 things I do for my overprivileged teen (that really don’t make me suffer):
1. Get suckered into buying Coachella tickets (she’s buying her own), renting an Airbnb in Palm Springs and agreeing to stand around with sweaty, oblivious teens, groove to all their music and then become a fan myself.
2. Read The Odyssey, Romeo and Juliet and Lord of the Flies aloud to her to spare her the trouble. Oh, the written word, so pointless, so tedious. How nice that at least one of us can understand and enjoy the classics.
3. Play hooky to do all things frivolous. Dang, her taste is expensive! I’m raising a mini-me. Meanwhile there’s only room for one big spender in this house. Scooch sister! Go get a job.
Does all this leave me with the feeling that I’m younger and hipper than I am? Of course. I’m lucky to share in all that is ridiculous and groovy about being a basic, teenage, white girl. My hat’s off to her, she’s upper level—all set for world domination. If only she could just get off the couch.
Besos y abrazos,