Girl Dinner

Reflections from a new era of parenthood

I officially have two teenage daughters; today is my youngest child’s birthday. It’s funny, because for the past few months, I have tried on referring to her as “my 13-year-old.” I have done this for the entirety of my parenthood—started transitioning myself to their new age a little too early. I always notice myself doing it, every year, and I always wonder why. Am I trying to ease myself in? Allow myself to get used to their new age gradually? Is it like a trial period, or maybe I’m pre-grieving another year passed? I used to wonder why I short-changed myself the full allotment of their current age. I think it a misguided protective measure to guard myself against sadness. It’s okay, you can call her nine years old, she’s still your child.

I’ve traded off calling her “my 12-year-old” vs “my 13-year-old” for the past month or so, but it’s been different this time. I didn’t feel sad about it; I was excited for her. Perhaps this year should have felt more monumental—an invisible passage out of the last “child age,” and into the teen years. But I learned long ago that these numbers don’t matter all that much, nor does it matter how tightly we cling to their babyhood or how easily we embrace the transition—it will happen nonetheless.

But I don’t think my peace around this milestone birthday is some indication that I’ve unlocked the next level of Parenting Zen. I think it’s simply this: I like having teenage daughters.

Yes, I said it. I know, I know—aren’t teenage daughters supposed to be awful? Moody and emotional and distant and rude, and aren’t I supposed to be “watching out for that one?” (Yes, I’m still holding onto my irritation at that most vexing of phrases, and yes, I still feel strongly that the subtext of it is garbage.) But I don’t buy into the dread around this age. I love raising teenagers. We are close, and we have fun together, and we know each other, and we communicate openly (So, so openly. Sometimes it makes me shudder). As we have settled into our post-divorce rhythm, the girls and I have reinvented so many aspects of our lives.

This past weekend, as we celebrated my youngest daughter’s birthday and my entry into the mom of two teenagers club, I felt extra tuned in to the evolution in our dynamic. It was one of those rare occasions when you fully grasp a beautiful shift, watch it unfolding right in front of your eyes. I posted this on my Facebook page:

Tomorrow my youngest turns 13, and we are spending part of the weekend with my oldest at college, as it’s Homecoming/Family Weekend. They were both so thrilled that they could be together for the big teenage birthday.

My 18 yo surprised her little sister with an impromptu dorm room party where she invited her college friends to celebrate her sister with donuts and juice boxes and balloons and music and party hats. She made it so special, and I was so touched that her friends were willing to join in. She is choosing good people.

And then she told me she planned to have a special sister sleepover so that I could have a night alone in the hotel to rest and recharge (I worked a lot, but I *love* my work, so it felt amazing…).

I see both my girls rising to help me, to pitch in, to champion me and support me. At first I wondered if it meant they were worried about me, that maybe they thought I couldn’t handle things or I wasn’t doing a good enough job.

But now I can see clearly that they are proud of me and they are grateful. I think they see that I am working my ass off to succeed, to provide for them, to give them all the support and love and safety they need. I AM doing a good job, even when I stumble. And I think they have learned that families support each other. And that women support each other. I think they see me doing everything I can to help them feel safe and seen and protected and that even though our family doesn’t look the way we thought it would, it is beautiful, and it is OURS.

I think what is happening is that they are taking pride and ownership in the creating of our life together. They see what I am giving and they see that what they give matters, too. They give to each other, they give to me, I give to them, and together we are thriving. I know we will continue to struggle and make mistakes and have bad days. But the love they have for each other and the strength they have shown just takes my breath away. I wouldn’t trade this for anything.

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I mean, I could do with a little more cooperation for matching outfit photo shoots. Just sayin.

There was a time when I didn’t think I would ever get over not having little kids. I thought I would mourn the baby and toddler years forever, the tiny teeth and sweaty heads on my chest in gliders, the mispronounced words and Disney cartoons and sippy cups.

In my post earlier this summer, These Grapes Are Sour, I reflected on the stage of life when I was determined to have a third baby:

“I recalled thinking, “I can’t wait to do that again,” after my second daughter took her first breaths. I remember my plan that if the timing worked out, by the time my third baby left the house, I’d be a grandmother! Let the oxytocin circle be unbroken!”

Well, things did in fact work out, but not the way I ever imagined. I hate country music, but pretty sure there’s some song about thanking God for unanswered prayers. I am grateful to be done with the baby years. Not only did I recover from my grief that I was done with pregnancy and nursing and toddlers and food in pouches and potty training and the Tooth Fairy, I am reveling in this stage. I didn’t have to talk myself into it—the view really is magnificent from over here.

I remember reading a blog post years and years ago about taking your kids to the pool. It was written by a mom whose kids were tweens and teens, and she had finally “arrived” at the stage of motherhood where she could sit by the edge of the pool and take her eyes off her kids. They were big; they were safe; she could actually enjoy herself. And while she loved her friends with little kids and loved their kids too, she was not willing to dash from one side of the shallow pool to the other while her friends frantically kept their wily preschoolers within arms’ reach. Her message was, “I put my time in. Now I get to focus on myself.”

My own children were young when I read it, and the counter-point was clear: Wow, that’s rude. She should be willing to keep her friends with littles company. But I clearly remember thinking, “Yes. Go, mama. Enjoy your smuggled-in cocktail and trashy novel.” I also clearly remember running into one of my favorite music class moms years after her toddlers were in my class. Her eyes shone as she gushed, “I have my life back!” and again I remember thinking, “Hell yeah, you do.”

I love my girls more than anything. I’ll probably never escape my need to tack on that disclaimer. I will always remember the teeny-tiny years fondly, and perhaps there is a part of me that will forever long for it and wistfully recall our lullabies and impromptu dance recitals. Those memories are mine; nobody can take them away.

Right now, my thirteen-year-old and I are the only human inhabitants of our home. It’s a strange adjustment, but we have settled into a beautiful rhythm. I work strange hours, sometimes evenings, occasionally on the weekends; my laptop is frequently attached to me. We stay up late together and take advantage of a blissful 9 am middle school start time. Sometimes after I finish voice lessons or a class or a show, we sit on the couch at nine or ten pm and watch TV and eat strange foods. Nachos or scrambled eggs or almond flour chocolate chip cookies from the freezer. Yogurt and smoothies and salami. Grapes and cheese sticks and pistachios. And cereal. So much cereal. Our dishwasher is disproportionately full of bowls and spoons.

I rarely cook “real meals” anymore. My youngest has always been a scavenger, a grazer, a dinner forager. Even when I cooked regularly, there was always a separate plate for her resembling a hastily thrown together charcuterie served with a side of guilt. Our lifestyle is semi-bohemian, and we both kind of love it. It’s not what I imagined when I thought about the hypothetical third baby whose departure from my home would usher in grandmotherhood. Before divorce and stand-up comedy and producing shows and writing a book and building a new life.

I love late nights and girl dinner; I love my feminist daughters who care for each other and for me; I love the wild aunties who help raise my children; I love being finished with Tooth Fairy duty and packing lunchboxes and stressing over third grade math worksheets; I love our life, and I love having teenagers.

XOXO,
Steph

Connect with me in real life!

• Join Zoe Rogers and I as we bring you an all-female stand-up comedy show on October 25th at The Dairy Arts Center. Don’t miss Comedy Coven: An antidote to perpetual patriarchy.

• I’m hosting a Moms Unhinged Comedy show in Littleton on 10/17! Grab tickets here.

• Listen To Your Mother Boulder is coming to The Dairy Center on 11/20 for our first ever holiday show! This one will sell out early, so grab tickets here!

• Want to write with me? I am going to be launching in-person therapeutic writing circles this year. If you are interested in learning more, fill out this form—no commitment!