Apparently I’m the Adult

There are approximately 4,782 books about how to survive the newborn stage.

Sleep schedules. Feeding schedules. Milestones. Potty training. Tantrums.

But apparently nobody thought to write the manual for the part where your kid becomes a teenager and suddenly you’re expected to just… handle it.

One minute you’re packing snacks, tying shoes.

The next, your child is taller than you, calling you “Bro”, speaking an entirely different language made up of slang you’ve never heard of before, and asking you for a ride somewhere approximately six minutes after you sat down.

Because apparently, somewhere along the way I stopped being Mom and became Uber with snacks and a debit card.

And nobody warned me.

BRO, I Am Your Mother

First of all, when did we start calling our mothers bro?

I carried you for nine months.

I gave birth to you.

I have kept you alive for sixteen years.

I am not your bro.

Except apparently I am, because I hear it approximately 37 times a day.

“Broooo.”

“Bro, what?”

“Bro, you don’t understand.”

Correct. I DON’T UNDERSTAND.

Half the time I genuinely have no idea what Parker is talking about anymore. He’ll say something with complete confidence, I’ll stare at him for five seconds trying to determine whether it was English, and then I’ll have to ask what it means.

Which, of course, immediately makes me ancient.

And God forbid I actually try to use one of the words I’ve learned.

Absolutely not.

Apparently there are rules. I can understand the slang, but I am not authorized to participate in it.

Noted. Bro.

Apparently I Drive for Uber Now

My other full-time position is chauffeur.

School. Friends’ houses. Work. Food. Somewhere he needs to be. Somewhere he suddenly needs to be that he somehow forgot existed until 20 minutes beforehand.

And somehow, every request sounds like it’s just a tiny little favor.

“Can you take me to…?”

Sure.

Why would I have plans?

Why would I need to know about this before right now?

At this point, I’m basically an Uber driver who doesn’t get paid, can’t decline the ride, and occasionally gets attitude from the passenger.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

Would not recommend this customer.

Still picking him up, though.

When Did You Get Your Own Life?

This is probably the strangest part.

Parker has his own life now.

He has friends. Plans. Places to go. Things he wants to do. Conversations I’m not part of. Inside jokes I know nothing about.

There are days when he comes home, disappears into the “man cave” aka the basement, comes back upstairs for food, tells me approximately three words about his day and disappears again.

Basically….

I have a roommate.

A very tall roommate who doesn’t pay rent, eats my food, needs rides everywhere, and occasionally emerges from the basement to ask me what’s for dinner.

And it’s weird.

Because for so many years, I was his whole world.

When they’re little, you’re involved in everything. You know who their friends are, what happened at school, what they’re watching, what they’re playing, what they ate, what they need and where they are approximately 99% of the time.

Then slowly, without asking your permission, their world gets bigger.

And your part in it changes.

Nobody Warns You About This Part

That’s the part of parenting a teenager that I wasn’t prepared for.

It’s not that he doesn’t need me anymore.

He does.

It’s just different.

Sometimes being his mom means giving advice.

Sometimes it means knowing when not to give advice – which, for the record, is significantly harder.

Sometimes it means listening.

Sometimes it means giving his space.

Sometimes it means driving him somewhere and realizing that the random ten-minute car ride might be the most he’s going to talk to me all day.

And sometimes it means standing in the kitchen at 10 p.m. making food while my six-foot-something roommate tells me a story using approximately seven words I don’t understand.

And I wouldn’t trade it.

Well….

I might trade the Uber part.

The Part I Try Not to Think About

As funny as this stage is, there’s also something happening underneath all of it that I try very hard not to think about too much.

He’s growing up.

Like… actually growing up.

And I know that’s the whole point.

You raise them so they can eventually go out into the world and build a life of their own.

But nobody really explains what it feels like when you start seeing it happen right in front of you.

I’m proud of the person he’s becoming.

I love that he’s independent.

I love that he has his own friends and his own interests and his own life.

I love watching him become more of himself.

But every once in awhile, I look at this kid who is now taller then me and think:

Wait. Where did my little boy go?

And then he’ll call me “bro” or ask me for a ride somewhere, and the emotional moment passes pretty quickly.

So that’s helpful.

Apparently This is Motherhood Now

Maybe this is just the next version of being a mom.

Less tying shoes.

More driving.

Less knowing absolutely everything.

More pretending you’re totally fine when they don’t need you quite as much.

Less “Mommy.”

Way more “Bro.”

And learning that your job isn’t to keep them little.

It’s to raise them well enough that they can build a life of their own – even when you’re not quite ready for them to have one yet.

So I’ll keep driving.

I’ll keep Googling the slang.

I’ll keep pretending I don’t get a tiny bit excited when he actually wants to hangout with me.

And I’ll keep feeding the very tall roommate living in the basement.

Because apparently he’s growing up.

And apparently I’m supposed to be okay with that.

I was not consulted. 😂