This week, my youngest son celebrates his thirteenth birthday. It officially marks my transition into the realm of having THREE teenagers. (No wonder my gray hairs are multiplying at an alarming rate!)
Navigating the teenage years is undeniably stressful. When they were younger, I had control over their lives: what they ate for breakfast, the TV shows they watched, who their friends were, and what time they went to bed. How much could I really mess that up? Even if they started the day with a less-than-ideal breakfast, I could always remedy it by lunchtime. Now they’re making choices with far-reaching consequences, and I feel like I’m racing against the clock to instill crucial life lessons.
The worries are endless—Internet safety, substance abuse, their future, safe sex, texting while driving, and let’s not forget the nagging thought of whether they remembered to wear clean underwear. Because if they don’t and something happens, what will the hospital staff think of me as a mother who raised a tribe of Neanderthals?
To all the moms of older kids who expressed sympathy for my struggles as a new parent—when I was a sleep-deprived zombie who hadn’t showered in days and smelled like sour milk because the baby wouldn’t let me put him down—you all reassured me with, “Don’t worry. It gets easier.”
I held onto that hope as if it were a beacon of light in a dark tunnel. When my baby, who once clung to my breast, transitioned to a toddler glued to my leg, I continued to cling to those promises. I endured years filled with diaper disasters, toppled Christmas trees, and grocery store meltdowns, always hearing, “Don’t worry. It gets easier.”
By that point, I had experienced enough of motherhood to know that “easier” was a relative term. But still, I hoped. At least I had some sleep, which was essential for answering endless questions and rescuing the goldfish that my four-year-old had decided needed “air.” I had endured the chaos of overflowing toilets due to bizarre items being flushed down, and I sang “The Wheels on the Bus” more times than I could count, all while balancing a restless baby on my hip. “Don’t worry. It gets easier,” they said.
And now? It’s all about slamming doors, eye rolls, and boundary testing. It’s challenging my decisions and arguments about fairness. It’s dropping everything because your teenager needs to talk right now. It’s fractions homework, enforcing curfews, discussing prejudice, and warning against date rape. It’s friend drama and the baffling question of why a stranger sent my daughter half-naked pictures.
Don’t you dare tell me it gets easier. I call nonsense.
I’ve traded kissing away scraped knees for nursing broken hearts. I’ve swapped sleepless nights rocking a restless baby for sleepless nights worrying about the choices they might make when I’m not around—choices that could change everything forever. I’ve traded “The Wheels on the Bus” for the ever-repeated “Be Responsible.” I’ve shifted from answering endless questions about the world to tackling the complexities of human behavior and the cruelty some exhibit.
But one thing remains constant: they still demand food… constantly. That hasn’t changed.
And thankfully, I no longer smell like vomit. So, there’s that.
Sure, some aspects have become easier. I can leave the house without little humans clinging to me. I can sleep for more than three hours at a time and haven’t been vomited on in months.
But in many ways, it’s undeniably harder now. (And let’s be honest, they aren’t as cute as they used to be, making forgiveness a tougher pill to swallow.)
What I heard when you said, “Don’t worry. It gets easier,” was that life would return to normal. I envisioned a time when I could shower and think without interruption, making decisions based solely on my desires instead of what was best for the family. I longed for the carefree days of my pre-kid life—when I wasn’t constantly stressed about raising future adults.
However, once you become a parent, you must establish a new normal. Sometimes that entails wearing mismatched sweatpants because nothing is clean or fitting right, learning to navigate a minefield of Legos, and hiding the chocolate on top of the fridge. Sometimes, it’s functioning on little sleep, yet loving every minute of it. It’s about bandaging scraped knees and addressing awkward questions. Through it all, that new normal includes a love so profound it hurts.
When you’re the mother of three teenagers, it’s about setting boundaries while watching them stumble. It’s having tough conversations and ignoring the eye rolls, stepping back when they make mistakes instead of rushing in to save the day (which is one of the hardest parts of parenting). The new normal is trusting them to make sound decisions and loving them even when they falter.
That is certainly not easy, but it is the new normal.
To the moms of little ones out there, don’t believe the well-meaning folks who assure you it gets easier. They mean well, but they’re mistaken. Life doesn’t get easier; it simply transforms. Those tiny humans aren’t the same as they were a year ago, a month ago, or even a week ago. But the exciting news is that neither are you. You grow, learn, and adapt. You figure things out—just like they do.
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