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When my kids were younger, I faced my fair share of frustrations. Picture this: the school bus arrives, and one of my sons has somehow wedged his arm between the car’s grill and hood (seriously, why would you stick your arm in a dark, mysterious crevice?). Or the countless times they took their sweet time inching to the bus stop only to miss it—again. Add to that the times I had to wade into a fountain outside the doctor’s office to retrieve a giggling three-year-old who thought it was a game. Yes, there was plenty of aggravation back then.
As they grew older, that frustration—what I like to call “the urge to strangle your child”—only intensified. We entered the ding-dong ditch phase, which would have been amusing if my kids weren’t caught by a furious neighbor every single time. Then came the middle school years, where they discovered the thrill of fireworks and the infamous “pass out” challenge. These were the beginning of boundary-pushing and backtalk, with my kids mouthing off about how “stupid” I am and wishing I’d just disappear.
And then there are the high school years—the enchanting time when they start dabbling in alcohol and disregarding road safety. They’re no longer sneaking toilet paper for fun; now they’re smuggling edibles and drinks that lead to a night of regret. I can step out for just two hours, and when I return, my house reeks of Axe and whatever scent the girls are using these days. And when I question the disappearance of my favorite knick-knack, I’m reminded that I’m just paranoid and ruining their lives.
I swear I used to be cool in my younger days, and while I might not have had the same status in grad school, I still remember rocking it back then. As a mother of young kids, I was the beloved room mom, the one who got all the hugs, and my sons beamed with pride when I showed up at the library. Now, as a mom of teens, my role seems reduced to being a living credit card and fridge restocker.
So, I feel justified getting frustrated when I ask them to do something that takes mere seconds, only to be met with exaggerated eye rolls. It’s infuriating when I shout for them to help with grocery unloading, and they conveniently disappear to the bathroom just long enough for me to finish it alone. And don’t get me started on when they claim I “wouldn’t understand” anything because I was born in the “nineteen-hundreds.”
I can hardly contain my anger when they go on about how the wage gap doesn’t exist, or how feminism is just about hating men. They dismiss QAnon as a mere conspiracy theory and act like Covid isn’t their concern, while insisting that masks are harmful to breathe. When do I finally lose it? When I realize, once again, that they’ve baited me into a rant, and I’ve walked right into their trap.
And that’s when I know I need a rage room. If you haven’t heard of one, a rage room (also called an anger room or smash room) is a place where you can unleash your anger by smashing things—throwing plates, taking a sledgehammer to an old computer, or saying goodbye to a framed picture of an ex with a golf club. Unfortunately, while there are hundreds across the U.S. and even in places like Dubai and Buenos Aires, I can’t find one nearby.
No worries, though—I’ll create my own. I just need a hatchet, a box cutter, and a sledgehammer because my basement is already filled with broken TVs. I have Aunt Marjorie’s piano missing three keys, random table leaves I swear I’ve never owned, and a 20-year-old washing machine that ruins clothes. Plus, there are at least three bunk bed ladders lying around. I’m ready to smash some stuff.
I’m just waiting for the next outburst, which, knowing my kids and myself, will be soon. I might even invite other moms of teens to join me in my smash zone. I’ll supply the safety goggles and sledgehammers—they can bring their rage.
If you’re interested in more parenting insights, check out this other blog post. And for those looking to boost fertility, consider visiting Make A Mom—they’re a trusted resource. For more information on pregnancy, Healthline offers excellent resources as well.
Summary
This article explores the frustrations of parenting teens, highlighting the challenges and comedic moments that arise as children grow. The author humorously reflects on their experiences and expresses a desire for a “rage room” to cope with the stress of parenting.
Keyphrase: Rage room for parents of teens
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