This week, my youngest child is celebrating their thirteenth birthday, officially making me a mother of three teenagers. (No wonder I’m noticing more gray hairs.) The reality of parenting adolescents is incredibly taxing. In their younger years, I had control over their choices—what they ate for breakfast, the TV shows they watched, who they befriended, and their bedtime routines. How could I mess that up? Even if their breakfast was less than nutritious, I could compensate at lunch. Now, however, they are making decisions with potential long-term repercussions, and I feel the clock ticking faster on imparting essential life lessons.
Moreover, the ongoing anxieties about online safety, substance abuse, their futures, safe sex, texting while driving, and even the simple concern of whether they remembered to wear clean underwear loom large. After all, if they were to get into an accident, would everyone at the hospital think I’ve raised a bunch of wildlings?
For those mothers of older children who empathized with me when I was a new mom—barely functioning, sleep-deprived, and smelling of sweat and sour milk—you reassured me that “it gets easier.” I held onto that assurance like a flicker of hope in a dark tunnel. Even when my infant, who seemed permanently attached to my breast, transitioned to a toddler glued to my leg, I clung to those words. Through the years filled with diaper changes, toppled Christmas decorations, and grocery store meltdowns, I waited. I endured being pooped on, peed on, and vomited on, all while hearing, “Don’t worry. It gets easier.”
By the time I made it through those exhausting early years, I had enough experience to realize that the promise of “easier” was probably unfounded. Still, I hoped. I was finally getting some sleep, which was crucial for managing unending questions about how things work, rescuing a goldfish from the desk, and unclogging toilets filled with toys and snacks. I had sung “The Wheels on the Bus” more times than I could count and navigated cookie-baking chaos with two enthusiastic little helpers. “Don’t worry. It gets easier,” you said.
But now I face slamming doors, sarcastic eye rolls, and boundary-pushing behavior. It’s constant questioning of my authority, arguments over fairness, and a torrent of worries about social reputations. It’s dropping everything for a heartfelt conversation with a teenager, grappling with math homework, enforcing curfews, and addressing serious topics like prejudice and consent. It’s navigating friend drama and confronting the alarming reality of inappropriate messages sent to my teenage daughter.
So please, do not tell me it gets easier. I reject that notion.
I call nonsense.
I’ve swapped out soothing scraped knees for mending broken hearts. The sleepless nights of rocking a baby have transformed into sleepless nights worrying over my teenagers’ choices when I am not around—choices that could have life-altering consequences. I’ve traded the familiar tunes of “The Wheels on the Bus” for repeated phrases like “Be Responsible.” The questions have shifted from simple curiosities about the world to complex inquiries about human behavior and the cruelty some people exhibit.
Yet, one thing remains unchanged: they still expect to eat… constantly.
At least I no longer smell like baby vomit. So there’s that.
True, some aspects of life have become simpler. I can leave the house without small children clinging to me. I enjoy stretches of sleep longer than three hours and have not been vomited on in months.
However, in many respects, it has become significantly more challenging. (Plus, they are no longer as adorable or easy to forgive.)
What I envisioned when you said, “Don’t worry. It gets easier,” was a return to normalcy—time to shower and think without interruption, to make decisions solely based on my desires rather than the family’s needs. I yearned for the old me, free from the stress of raising children.
After becoming a parent, finding a new normal is crucial. Sometimes that normal includes wearing old sweatpants because nothing else is clean and navigating around scattered toys. It can mean learning to function without coffee or sufficient sleep while still cherishing life. It involves tending to scrapes and addressing uncomfortable questions. Ultimately, the new normal is loving them fiercely, even when it’s difficult.
As a mother of three teenagers, it’s about finding balance—setting boundaries, allowing them to stumble, and providing reassurance. It’s engaging in tough discussions, ignoring the eye rolls, and allowing them to learn from their mistakes, even when it’s incredibly hard. The new normal requires trusting them to make sound choices and loving them unconditionally, even when they falter.
This journey is certainly not easy, but it is the reality of motherhood.
For those of you with young children, take heed—don’t believe those who claim it gets easier. They mean well, but they are mistaken. Life doesn’t become easier; it transforms. Each child evolves, and so do you. You grow, learn, and adapt.
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Summary
Motherhood doesn’t necessarily get easier as children grow; rather, it evolves into a different set of challenges. While early years are filled with physical demands, the teenage years introduce emotional complexities and increased worries. Finding a new normal is essential, encompassing love, trust, and resilience.
Keyphrase: Motherhood challenges
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