October 14, 2011 1 Comment
I mean, I recognize that our job is to keep our babies from killing their fool selves as they march toward being grown up human beings and that we have to learn to let go a little, but on that day, as she pecked my cheek and bounced away from my car, it was very, very clear to me that, well, I ain’t ready for all that.
But in my quiet moments, when I really consider the kind of mother I am and especially the kind of mom I want to be to my babies, I recognize that I have to get ready. Especially for my Mari, who, at age 12, is hurtling head first into puberty and teenhood and all the stuff that comes with the two.
It’s the “stuff” that scares me—the stuff being the boys and the peer pressure and the self-consciousness and the sneaking and the rebellion and the false sense of maturity. I was a teenager once. I remember the mean girls. The cute boys and their sweet talk. The friends with the basements and the liquor cabinets and parents who turned a blind eye. How we all slathered on our war paint—our mom’s mascara and lipstick—and ran toward the fire, books and grades and what we learned at church on Sunday morning be damned. Read more of this post