In my last post, I mentioned dark and twisty. That should have been followed by parenting teens. Seriously. I-Don’t-Like-Parenting-Teens. It sucks. And there is no other word for it. Well, at least no other word I’d feel comfortable posting.
I wonder what the world is coming to. I never would have spoken to my parents the way I hear teens speak to theirs nowadays. I don’t get it either. I actually went and saw a psychologist the other day about it.
“They’re smarter than me,” I complained.
“They’re not smarter than you,” he says wisely, then continues with an explaination. “When someone comes in my office with a problem, I usually know what to do. But when I go home, and my three teens come at me, I’m like a deer in the headlights. The obvious does not come to me.”
“But everytime I open my mouth to say something, I have a Ozzie and Harriet type idea in my head about how it should go.” I give him a pathetic look. “You know, ‘tell me what’s bothering you, what’s wrong. Let’s sit down and figure this out,’ and I’m thinking the whole time we will sit and have a reasonable conversation about what is going on. But then they respond, and it’s nearly always disasterous. They’re defensive, argumentative, sometimes downright rude.”
“The first thing you need to do is get rid of Ozzie and Harriet,” he says sagely.
I suppose he is right. But that is hard to do. Because I actually want to help them. I want them to be happy. I want Ozzie and Harriet, damn it!
But I can’t compete with the teenage brain, and surges of testoterone. So, I’ve decided I need three things: More time-outs (for me, not them–doesn’t that sound appealing? Getting to go to your room and shut the door and be all alone?), more wine, and more date-nights. DH, are you out there listening?