Next Phase

My oldest turned thirteen last week.

I am henceforth officially the parent of a teenager.

I promise, though, that this isn't going to be one of those nostalgic and overly-sentimental posts I am apt to write whenever I think of my children Growing Up.

I am actually a bit excited. See, for years, all the young people I've ever had dealings with were teenagers. Like youth group and the girls in the dance team at church, and my high school students when I taught Physics. Loved them. Loved that age so much.

When I was a guidance counselor in Minnesota and Singapore, I worked with both teens and children and discovered that while both were intensely rewarding and enjoyable, given the choice, I'd still pick teens. I remember wishing that when I became a mother, I might somehow give birth to teens rather than babies, because surely I would be frightfully awkward with humans who couldn't hold conversations and with whom I'd have to instead make blubbering sounds and devise bizarre hand games just to say hello.

Then: motherhood.

Real motherhood, with real babies and real blubbering.

Not gonna get all weepy here (I promised, right?) so let's just say that I've loved having babies. And toddlers-in-potty-training. And preschoolers. And just. . . Children. And - would you believe it - when I see some stranger's baby staring at me, my hands fly to my eyes and my mouth says peekaboo, and the baby might even smile at me, and I don't even think about how socially ludicrous that is because it really isn't.

To say my children's existence has forever changed me is a huge understatement; I'm not even the same person to whom I might make a comparison. There's very little of Old Me left, and yet I'm More. And all the things I thought were a big deal back then - Barney vs. Sesame Street, CrySelfToSleep vs Cosleeping, Nursing vs. Formula, SterilizedBottles vs Whateversinthedishrack - aren't even on my radar now.

Even "what's your favorite age?" isn't a question that crosses my mind any more. Every age rocks. Every age is better than the one before because these are my kids, who are People with Personalities, and each day, week, year, they're becoming more like their true selves, the ones I didn't even have a clue about when they were just born and toothless and inarticulate. Of course I have fond memories of the baby years with the fuzzy heads and wobbly bums. And of course I've saved all their early stories (the ones written entirely in capitals and consonants) and drawings of the family (all shaped like pickles). But the future excites me. And teenhood, with its possibilities and sweetness and vulnerability and strength, is right there at the top of the list. 

BUT.

While I've been a mentor and teacher to other people's teens, I've never been a mother to my own. So many of you guys are way ahead of me in this, though and there's so much to learn from you. I want to hear your stories, your advice, the things you are loving or have loved about being a parent to a teenager. So would you leave a comment to encourage me, caution me, or even just come alongside and confess that you're about to step over this brink yourself and you're scared pantsless but agog at the same time? 

Two other things:

One, while trying to think of birthday presents for my new teen, I thought I'd write her a story. Now, this was a risky endeavor because it could've ended up being a Lame Story. Or it might actually have been a Half-Decent Story but maybe a story as a birthday gift for a teenager isn't cool. Whatever. Was I going to take the risk anyway?

I wrote the story. 

It was satire, because teens like satire and irony (at least I did as a teen). And it's set in her school, which was even riskier, because well, middle school. And I wrote her and her friends into it, too, which was the riskiest of all, because it meant descending into my unreliable memory bank for catchphrases and observations and signature gestures from all the playdates they've ever had, which is - even at 1 am when my brain is most alert - a gamble.

"Please, God, let her like it a little bit," was my prayer as I stashed it in her backpack to find on the morning of her birthday. When she got home, she said I was "spot on" about her friends. And then, because she thought it was funny, she read the story to them.

Ridiculously relieved. 

Note to self: motherhood is Risk. Therefore, grab it by the horns and run with it. 

Two, I am making bunnies. Oddly cathartic. More details to come!