Everyone warned me of teenage daughters.
Maybe they forgot that I used to be one.
I’m not afraid of the road I’ve already traveled,
Even if it looks different, these days.
It’s hard,
But our needs are the same.
Recognition, empathy and encouragement.
I love that my tweenage daughter appreciates music and novels.
I love that my tweenage daughter cares about matters outside of herself.
I love my tweenage daughter’s courage and fearlessness.
And yes, I love knowing I fostered that.
She’s a badass.
I wish this story had a happy ending.
Halfway through the day, it did.
And then reality set in and instead of my nicely wrapped package with a bow, I got the messy masterpiece that is parenting.
You see, before Christmas I grappled with whether to get my children a Nintendo.
I never had one as a child and was always jealous of other families.
I imagined our family playing Mario Cart and Sports. Modern bonding.
And while that has happened, my concern over screen addiction has also come true.
So yesterday, I put it away.
The Nintendo, the iPads, all of the screen games took a little vacation.
And while they moaned first thing this morning, they also quickly launched into building a fishing boat made out of giant magnatiles, complete with wooden blocks taped to refrigerator magnetic gears, used as the fish they caught. This boat even had a toilet made out of a cardboard box, so it was legit.
We played Hungry, Hungry Hippo, they painted rocks and even reenacted “ski school”.
All was well until just before dinner time when the Hanger (hungry anger) set in and they lost. Their. Shit.
Without screens to distract from their impending starvation, they melted down exclaiming, “THERE’S NOTHING TO DO!”
“Well, then. I’ll just burn the house down.”
“That seems a little extreme, mom.”
Yea? So does your so-called starvation.
But I digress.
Parenting is hard, y’all.
I’m 12 years into this business and many days I just don’t feel like doing it anymore.
I keep stumbling and getting back up. It’s thankless and sacrificial and consuming.
It has taken so much out of me, out of us parents, as individuals.
And yet, still I know that it has given us more.
Our children have humbled, inspired and taught us.
And I suppose in place of a happy ending, I instead recognize that the falls, missteps and exhaustion are all part of the journey.
And what a wild ride it is.
I am not a winning Coach.
The loss this weekend shattered me when, with good intention, my husband commented of the other team, “They were coached well.”
They were. It was the God’s-to-honest truth.
Their coach was intentional, level-minded and strategic.
His girls performed to his expectations without much fanfare.
Meanwhile, I’m looking my worst player in her eyes and telling her I see her.
I see her insecurities, worry and anxiety.
I know she doesn’t feel good enough and at the end of the day, I want her to feel, she’s more than good-enough. She’s her best.
It’s me.
I see me.
I was never good enough and all I ever wanted was for someone to tell me I was.
I am not a winning coach.
But to someone, I matter.
They matter.
“You’re not LISTENING to me!” she exclaimed.
The light switch went off.
I remember feeling that way, too, when I was her age.
Misunderstood.
Her father and I reviewed our game plan and saw no error.
And yet, that’s the funny thing about plans.
They’re just that.
Plans.
We had good intentions.
But so is the path to hell.
I showed my hands.
“Ok.” I said.
“Really?” she replied, in disbelief.
“Yea. We’re just here to support you.”
And maybe that’s all we ever need to hear.
What do you say to the woman strong enough to stand alone?
Honestly, it doesn’t matter because
She still stands.
It’s just three words so why are they the hardest to say aloud?
“I. Need. Help.”
Her teachers were shocked: “She is so happy and helpful in class. She has friends and is on honor roll. I never saw this coming.”
How many times have we heard this same story of surprise?
At what point do we not wait until it becomes irreversible regret and start paying attention to the little signs?
Depression is not sudden.
It’s gradual.
We know this but we don’t want to label it so we look for other explanations.
Meanwhile, they continue drowning.
Not my child.
“But if I tell her what’s wrong, I’ll cry!” She laments.
It’s better than crying in the bathroom, I remind her.
School therapists are like life guards; on the side ready to offer help when needed.
Our struggles may be a part of our story but they don’t have to be the end.
But first, we must take the hardest, most important step.
Admit that we are struggling and ask for help.
It’s just three words.
“Let me lead.” I plead.
Do you trust me? Then, let me lead.
Faith over fear.
We’re in this together. I explain to her.
It’s not me against you.
Instead, me with you.
I walk alongside you, child.
I witness your growth, next to you.
Encouraging you. Believing in you. Cheering you on.
Not against you. With you.
Arms linked, we march towards your bright future.
Until I let go. And you lead.
I trust you.
Faith over fear.
You lead.
Y’all. They cute but let’s be real.
This is the most thankless job I’ve ever signed up for.
I guess this is what the mid-life crisis is? When you’re too far to turn around and make a different choice?
I was almost a screenwriter. An actress. Famous.
Instead, I’m a mom. A coach. A teacher. A writer.
Oh, wait.
My life isn’t over just because I chose differently.
It’s different, yes. Richer, yes. Harder, yes.
But I’m not done.
I’m just getting started.
This is the most thankless job I’ve ever signed up for.
But I’ll be damned if I don’t embrace the choice I made and inspire children to follow their own dreams.
Let’s be real.
They cute, ya’ll.
“Unfair!” “Bad call!” “These refs are the worst.”
All sentiments I heard from my players last basketball season.
Victims.
At our last practice, I gave each girl a flashlight.
“Ultimately, you choose what you shine your light on. Are you going to shine it on what is out of your control? Unfair players and referees? Offensive injuries? Or, instead, are you going to shine your light on what you CAN do. Are you going to see the possibility?”
In the heat of the moment, the lesson remains true: Focus on what you alone can control.
This same principle applies to my daughters with nightmares.
Can we control the terrible thoughts that enter our heads? Not always.
But can we allow them to pass by us like a moving thundercloud without allowing them to rain on our parade? Yes.
We can choose to shine our light, our thoughts on something that brings us joy.
A recent trip to the beach, the taste of ice cream, a memory of snow. The possibility.
No, we cannot control that which offends our personal space.
But we surely can control how we respond to it.
It’s our light.
And we choose where it shines.
Ballers.
I try.
I keep trying to see that little face amongst the venom that spews from her mouth.
But she’s not my little girl anymore.
No, she is her own.
And boy, does she have a lot to say.
How do I tell her?
How can she know, I am the mother I never had?
Oh, but wait.
This is her story, not mine.
I was 30 hours into labor when my midwife dropped that truth bomb on me.
“This is not your story, Lauren. It’s hers.”
Good God.
Nice to know, now.
I gave birth to a new human.
Not a continuation.
Instead, our contribution.
We try.
We listen.
We recognize.
She has a lot to say.
This is her story.
Not ours.
Nice to know.
Always.
New Leaf Parenting 