I am officially the mother of a teenager. O.M.G.
Just yesterday she was a toddler who didn’t like me putting her hair in a ponytail. Now she is a young lady who wakes up at 5:30 every morning to straighten her hair. A few hours ago she was struggling through the Biscuit book series, with happy titles like “Bathtime for Biscuit” and “Biscuit and the Bunny.” Now she is three books into the Twilight series, reading about romantic vampires who stage an epic good versus evil battle.
When did this happen? Nearly every moment for the last 13 years. But while it seems time moved in a flash, it was so incremental I didn’t see it coming until it was already here.
I did try to savor those moments more experienced parents told me they now missed, like sticky kisses and dress up games that went on for hours. I have the stuffed photo albums and hours of home movies to prove it. Still, it is hard to believe that the person who now wears my shoe size was once the baby who fit into my arms. And the more I pay attention to popular culture now that my daughter is its prime target, the more I am terrified.
It’s always an adventure going clothes shopping and trying to find something that is not trashy or slutty. I understand my daughter wants to look fashionable. I draw the line, however, at low cleavage, words scrawled across the bottom of her pants, and other ways “designers” try to make teen girls look like hookers. At her age I think I was still wearing clothing my mother picked out for me. If that were my rule today, I doubt I could find her anything to wear at all, which is even worse. So, we compromise — she gets to pick it out, but I get absolute veto power in the dressing room.
Girls in her grade already have boyfriends, and some have even gone on “dates” to the movies. That’s not happening in my house, and I don’t care that other parents let their kids do that. As a seventh grader, she’s not going to a high school football game without a parent. She’s not going to a party where I haven’t personally spoken with the hosting parents, who better be there for every minute of it. I won’t let her have a Facebook page.
On the other hand, I let her watch television shows that other parents might cringe at. “Teen Mom” and “16 & Pregnant,” two popular MTV shows about the trials of young motherhood, are required viewing at my house. They are used as cautionary tales of too much, too soon. We watch them together, and every now and again I will pause the DVR and talk about what we’ve seen and why it’s important to wait for a lot of things, not just sex.
Even though she’s a great, level-headed girl, she is still just that — a girl. Society wants her to grow up too fast. Her friends might want her to participate in things she’s not old enough to be a part of. She wants wings. I understand. But she also needs roots, and at this point in her life those are more important.
My goal is to raise a daughter who doesn’t need me. But for now, luckily, she does.
