Dear Intrepid,
Forgive my recent stumbling as your parent, but your sudden leap into the teen years has left me scrambling to catch up and figure out the rules of this new game.
See, when I became illegitimately pregnant with you at the age of 19, perhaps I wasn't thinking things through as clearly as I should have. Looking into the future for your dad and I, all I could see was a snuggly-wuggly little sand bag of joy in my arms, literally sucking the pregnancy weight out of me along with all that breastmilk. You would be perfect in every way, always, and we would be the bestest parents every despite our complete lack of experience and copious immaturity.
After48 hours of agony beyond words which resulted in me finally being able to push out all ten pounds of your watermelon self you came gently into the world, I remember rocking you softly, peacefully, thinking every so often about what kind of person you would be in a few years. But right then - at that moment - you were my little angel, and the idea of you becoming anything but was so distant it was almost laughable.
And then, suddenly, you're thirteen, you talk back, your hair gets stinky when you don't shower, and I'm still as fat as ever.
And worse still, you seem to think you're some kind of individual. Like you can make up your own mind about things, or something. You have your own likes and dislikes, you have opinions that don't always reflect my own, and not all your choices are made after seeking my approval.
Well, shit. What happened?
Last week, when I got the call from your vice principal about you skipping a class, I nearly dropped the phone in shock. How on earth could my perfect, studious, responsible son not attend advisory? It was obviously a mistake. Surely you got lost, or you hit your head and fell unceremoniously into your locker and was buried in old apple cores and crumpled paper until you regained consciousness an hour later.
Except that wasn't the case, and the next thing I knew you were in detention. Meanwhile, I was scrambling to figure out how to deal with this in the best way possible with no prior experience whatsoever.
Oh, wait a minute. As it turns out, I do have experience! Not in raising a teenager, perhaps, but most certainly in cutting class. And suddenly, a little grin appeared on my face. I had a shower, put my clothes on, and I went to collect you from after-school detention knowing exactly what to do.
See, I was a bit of a high school bad ass. By thirteen I was skipping classes regularly. By fourteen I was expelled.
Some would say I was the cutting class queen.
A cut above your average school delinquent.
That 80's band, Cutting Crew? That's right: Named after your mom. And any chance of getting out of your truancy easily just died in your arms tonight.
Um, I mean last Wednesday.
If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I won't let you go down the same path I did. No way, no how. You're too good for that. You made a mistake, but it's one that, if not dealt with properly, could lead to more and bigger mistakes. I won't see you mess up your life under my watch, no matter how ill-equipped I may feel about raising a teenager at thirty-three years of age.
So, when you got into the van after detention and I didn't say a word to you, I hope you saw the seriousness of what you did.
When I grounded you for a week, I hope you saw concern beneath the anger.
When I made you tell your dad what you did, I hope you saw worry under his disappointment.
When I said you have to earn our trust back, I hope you believe in yourself enough to know you can, because we believe a lot in you.
When I told you that if you ever do that again I'll go to school with you for an entire day and walk you to every class and cut your sandwiches into little stars in the middle of the cafeteria at lunch time, I hope you know me well enough to take me seriously.
And when we tell you how much we love you, I hope you believe it. Because we really do.
We really do.
I know you feel badly about what you did, but you're a good kid. Everyone makes mistakes, my sweet boy. Thankfully, I believe to the core that this is one you're not likely to contemplate again for a very long time. I know some of the people you cut class with didn't even go to detention because they aren't afraid of the school consequences, and at least one of them has a parent who doesn't seem to care enough to discipline him whatsoever. But I hope you can see that the reason we jumped on this so hard is because we do care, and we take our role as your parents seriously.
Love you, big guy. Don't forget it.
The Truancy Officer Mom
PS: Your brothers have promised never to grow up. I'm so relieved I only have to go through this teenager stuff once. Phew!
Forgive my recent stumbling as your parent, but your sudden leap into the teen years has left me scrambling to catch up and figure out the rules of this new game.
See, when I became illegitimately pregnant with you at the age of 19, perhaps I wasn't thinking things through as clearly as I should have. Looking into the future for your dad and I, all I could see was a snuggly-wuggly little sand bag of joy in my arms, literally sucking the pregnancy weight out of me along with all that breastmilk. You would be perfect in every way, always, and we would be the bestest parents every despite our complete lack of experience and copious immaturity.
After
And then, suddenly, you're thirteen, you talk back, your hair gets stinky when you don't shower, and I'm still as fat as ever.
And worse still, you seem to think you're some kind of individual. Like you can make up your own mind about things, or something. You have your own likes and dislikes, you have opinions that don't always reflect my own, and not all your choices are made after seeking my approval.
Well, shit. What happened?
Last week, when I got the call from your vice principal about you skipping a class, I nearly dropped the phone in shock. How on earth could my perfect, studious, responsible son not attend advisory? It was obviously a mistake. Surely you got lost, or you hit your head and fell unceremoniously into your locker and was buried in old apple cores and crumpled paper until you regained consciousness an hour later.
Except that wasn't the case, and the next thing I knew you were in detention. Meanwhile, I was scrambling to figure out how to deal with this in the best way possible with no prior experience whatsoever.
Oh, wait a minute. As it turns out, I do have experience! Not in raising a teenager, perhaps, but most certainly in cutting class. And suddenly, a little grin appeared on my face. I had a shower, put my clothes on, and I went to collect you from after-school detention knowing exactly what to do.
See, I was a bit of a high school bad ass. By thirteen I was skipping classes regularly. By fourteen I was expelled.
Some would say I was the cutting class queen.
A cut above your average school delinquent.
That 80's band, Cutting Crew? That's right: Named after your mom. And any chance of getting out of your truancy easily just died in your arms tonight.
Um, I mean last Wednesday.
If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I won't let you go down the same path I did. No way, no how. You're too good for that. You made a mistake, but it's one that, if not dealt with properly, could lead to more and bigger mistakes. I won't see you mess up your life under my watch, no matter how ill-equipped I may feel about raising a teenager at thirty-three years of age.
So, when you got into the van after detention and I didn't say a word to you, I hope you saw the seriousness of what you did.
When I grounded you for a week, I hope you saw concern beneath the anger.
When I made you tell your dad what you did, I hope you saw worry under his disappointment.
When I said you have to earn our trust back, I hope you believe in yourself enough to know you can, because we believe a lot in you.
When I told you that if you ever do that again I'll go to school with you for an entire day and walk you to every class and cut your sandwiches into little stars in the middle of the cafeteria at lunch time, I hope you know me well enough to take me seriously.
And when we tell you how much we love you, I hope you believe it. Because we really do.
We really do.
I know you feel badly about what you did, but you're a good kid. Everyone makes mistakes, my sweet boy. Thankfully, I believe to the core that this is one you're not likely to contemplate again for a very long time. I know some of the people you cut class with didn't even go to detention because they aren't afraid of the school consequences, and at least one of them has a parent who doesn't seem to care enough to discipline him whatsoever. But I hope you can see that the reason we jumped on this so hard is because we do care, and we take our role as your parents seriously.
Love you, big guy. Don't forget it.
PS: Your brothers have promised never to grow up. I'm so relieved I only have to go through this teenager stuff once. Phew!