“My 16 year old called me a slut. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“I’m a single mom . I’m scared of my teenage son’s rage. I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s constant tension in my house. You can’t live under shit all the time.”
Our kids were once young and small and then, one day it seems, we wake up to this sometimes-monster, this unappreciative, egotistical, rude, complaining parasite living in my home. And I look at this teenage person and I’m clueless how the hell this happened. Where I went wrong. What to do now. Overwhelmed. Frustrated. Seething mad. Hurt. Guilty.
I want a phenomenal relationship with this budding young adult. I want to admire him, encourage him, enjoy his company, share my life with him but it always seems to go deep south. It a matter of seconds, we hit pure insanity. An innoculous ‘good morning” could be the impromptus for World War Three. It’s unpredictable, usually ugly, and so exhausting.
So, the chit chatting stopped. Heads were nodding. Little grunts and laughs of agreement. We were firing on the exact same frequency and rode that wave of electricity regally. They were totally mine. I knew it; they knew it; the staff knew it. We were going to engage in this journey and face all the unspoken hopelessness they were clueless about. We had already begun this quest for answers. And not lacy, nicey ones; but real, raw, now kind of answers. The kind of answers that catapult you from frustration and insanity to gloriousness.