You deal with a lot of irritating conversations as parents. Everything from “are you sure it’s not twins?” while still pregnant, to “she’s small for 13 months, isn’t she?” as snarkily asked at Abby’s doctor’s appointment last month by a woman in the waiting room. For the record, lady, no she’s not small. She’s actually a good, normal size. Your son, though, has a very big head.
One of the dominant declarations the parents of younger children constantly hear is “just wait until they’re teenagers”. No matter what you’re discussing, from broken legs to pee-rimmed toilets, the standby response seems to be “just wait until they’re teenagers”.
Maybe I’m naive. I’m sure teenagers have a whole set of problems that I can’t even imagine right now. But even though they may slam doors, roll their eyes, and consider mom and dad losers, they can also talk. In sentences. That can give a glimpse of what’s wrong. Instead of the guessing game we go through during infancy and into toddlerhood and, unfortunately in some cases like mine, longer than we should. They can also dress themselves, amuse themselves, feed themselves. They’re functioning, capable people.
Best of all, though, they sleep. Oh teenagers and their sleep.
It could be that I was never your typical teenager. I didn’t break the rules. I was always back by curfew. I never snuck out of the house. I didn’t drink or do drugs or steal the family car. I didn’t wind up pregnant at 16 or come home one day with a tramp stamp. By all accounts, my teen years were rather pathetic. So maybe my view is slanted, but teenagers don’t seem that terrible. I mean, if Buzz now at age 3 doesn’t kill me, then I’m pretty sure nothing will.
With that, I give you permission to remember this in 12 years when it all comes back to bite me in the ass.