Today I am the mother of a teenager. My son Braden, an unwilling participant in his own birth, was yanked from the womb 13 years ago today. I've said for a few years now that we're in parenting utopia—no babies, no teenagers. It all ends today.
Or does it?
Or does it?
Can we make it through the next seven years with no door
slams, no holes punched in the wall, no angry “YOU-JUST-DON’T-UNDERSTAND!”
moments? I’m not so sure. Most of the grown men I’ve asked have admitted to a
wall punch or two during their teenage years, and my husband bears scars on his
own forearm from an angry adolescent outburst.
Will my son make it through junior high and high school with
no regrets? Not a chance. I see many of my own worst qualities spewing out of
my firstborn—impatience, a tongue quick to criticize, brutal honesty that’s not
always packaged in love. He’ll say something he regrets, probably every day,
until maturity and natural consequences and the book of James finally do their
work in him and tame his tongue. Then it’ll only happen once a week.
Will he experience devastating disappointment? Will he be
stressed and overwhelmed? Will he feel like no one understands him? Will he
wonder why God made him the way He did and wish he could be someone else? Yes
on all counts. And he’ll be stronger, wiser, gentler because of it. I wouldn’t
shield him from these traumas for anything.
But I will not surrender him to teenage culture. I will not accept the popular idea that this is where I lose him. I will not believe the bad press that teenagers get. I will not
believe the lies that teenagers don’t want anything to do with their parents or
that they have to shut us out to discover their own independence. I will not
assume that he doesn’t want to hear from me on the big issues of life and keep
my fingers crossed that he’s getting good enough messages from his church
leaders, teachers, coaches, and friends. I will not trade in my role as his
parent in hopes of being his friend. I will not assume that healthy
independence means hours spent in a room filled with technology but no people
or that my son has better things to do than spend time with his parents and
little sisters. I will not stop wrestling with him, tickling him, or hugging
him just because he’s eight inches taller than me (and, oh, how I hope he’ll be
eight inches taller than me!).
In the blink of an eye, these little children I’ve been
raising will all be teenagers, and it starts today. I say bring it on. I can’t
wait!
