Promises To My Teenagers
by Lela Davidson
I recently spent time around a table with some older and wiser mothers. The conversation soon turned to teenagers—and there I was, sitting with the grownups. I envied my own budding members of that maligned demographic, who sat on the hostess’s matching recliners, lost in contemplation of their iPods, while the battle-worn women told of children morphing into angry, emotionally unstable, abusive, even suicidal teens.
“You never want to believe it will happen to you,” said one. “You never want to believe that your sweet child will change.”
I smiled and nodded and kept quiet, because here’s the thing: I don’t believe it. Call me naïve, call me smug, call me a delusional Pollyanna, but I do not believe my children will ever become the dreadful creatures described around that table. I’m clueless, I know. It’s the only way to be an optimist. And I hold to my conviction even in the face of empirical evidence to the contrary. My son is often apathetic, rude, and vulgar, acting as if he is entitled to things that are in fact privileges. Still, I’m in denial. I don’t believe my kids will become unpleasant in the same way that I don’t believe the economic sky is falling or that I’ll die from drinking aspartame. Besides, most teenagers have a right to be surly. What if some middle-aged couple controlled your life?
I might not be a cool mom and I don’t want to be my kids’ friend, but I pledge to believe in their innate awesomeness and support their unique charms. At least, I’ll do my best. Here’s what you can count on, kids:
- I promise to buy as much acne medication as I can afford.
My dear children, you have inherited not only your father’s enviable olive skin tone, but also his overzealous sebaceous glands. Your grandparents, who place Advil and Oxycontin in the same pharmaceutical category, did not believe in acne intervention, and your father seems predisposed to share this viewpoint. Not to worry. I will keep you in benzoyl peroxide, exfoliating crystals, and clarifying toners for as long as you need them.
- I promise not talk to your friends on Facebook.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ll lurk, I’ll snoop, I’ll scrutinize and make decisions about your social life based on information I glean from your online networks (not to mention your text messages), but I will not engage your friends. I won’t comment on your status, poke your hotter peers, or tag you in pictures with your grandmother. (You’ll have to deal with her directly about that.)
- I promise to let you have ugly hair.
In Peggy Sue Got Married, Nicolas Cage’s character Charlie says, “What’s the point of being a teenager if you can’t dress weird?” Same goes for hair. So go ahead, gorgeous daughter, get a mohawk. See if I care. It’ll grow back. Ratty t-shirts? Ridiculous makeup? Go for it. I draw the line at tattoos and facial piercings. Only after you’ve proven your skill at long-term planning by sticking with a course of study long enough to earn a degree will you earn the right to make permanent decisions about body decor.
- I promise to accept that you will have sex.
…Eventually. But please, for the love of latex, do not let me catch you doing it. I realize that your sex-education so far has consisted of abstinence-only propaganda and STD fear-mongering. You know I don’t expect or recommend that you wait until marriage to have sex. But if you could please just hold off until you leave for college, I will show my appreciation with a crate of condoms.
- I promise to pay for college.
Speaking of school, it’s on me. I may never let you forget the luxury you enjoy, but as long as I’m breathing and you’re studying, you’ll never have to wonder if you can afford an education. Get good grades and don’t end up in an episode of Frat Boys Gone Wild, and I’ll pick up the tab. (If you really love me, you’ll stay off Greek Row entirely.)
I don’t ask much in return for all this. Just don’t be a jerk. And don’t turn me into one of those women sitting around a table in fifteen years lamenting, “You never want to believe it will happen to you.”
About the Author
Lela Davidson is the author of Blacklisted from the PTA. Her writing is featured regularly in family and parenting magazines throughout the United States and Canada. She blogs about marriage, motherhood, and life-after-40 on her blog, After the Bubbly.
