Mom: Chill. Leave Me Alone!

It’s always fun – almost therapeutic – sitting with my now-adult children and revisiting my unique and occasionally annoying parenting skills from their teenage years.

We laugh. We exaggerate. We conveniently forget a few things.
But mostly, we remember.

Did I hound them like the paparazzi?
You bet I did!

I’m especially grateful for the early years, when they were babies, behaved their age, and I saw them 24×7. I lived under the happy illusion that I knew them inside out.

Then, almost overnight, they grew.

It was too late to pause, rewind, or freeze the moment. I was suddenly living with my very own genetically created aliens – powered by raging hormones. They called themselves ‘The Teens’.

They took over my life for a few years… and quite impressively, were pleasant to everyone who wasn’t me.

I didn’t see it coming.
You won’t either – until it hits you!

Anxiety became my cardio. I learned to handle one mini panic attack at a time.
The famous “Chill pill?” Completely ineffective.

I swung constantly between being a strict parent and a lenient one and occasionally attempted the impossible middle ground. There was no manual, no blueprint – just instinct and guesswork.

Sometimes I overreacted to the smallest things when I should have stepped back. Other times, I avoided conflict entirely, worried I’d be pushed back harder.

Conflict, of course, was inevitable.

What made it worse? They had an uncanny ability to detect every one of my weaknesses and use them with precision.

Still, it wasn’t all war zones. There were moments of insight, growth, and unexpected connection. Slowly, I learned to listen and keep the lines of communication open.

There were evenings I tried to decode parenting over a few glasses of wine. That experiment failed spectacularly.

So, in a moment of what felt like authority, I declared:
“You’re grounded.”

It felt powerful. Temporary peace.
That illusion lasted … minutes.

They reappeared – teary, emotional, and fully prepared with arguments:

• “You don’t understand me.”
• “You’re not listening.”
• “So-and-so’s parents don’t have curfews.”
• “You’re unfair—you treat us differently!”

Ah, the guilt trip.

That is where I learned the art of poker face. Sit upright. Say little. Look firm.
Miraculously, it worked. Sometimes.

Then came the silence.
The kind that feels louder than noise.

The dog howls. The air thickens. You brace yourself.

A door creaks open. A storm gathers. Words are exchanged.

Then, BANG. Door slam. House shakes. Silence again.

And I’m left wondering …. What just happened?

I gather my thoughts and try not to stomp into their room. Eventually, I would knock.
“We need to talk.”

Eyes roll. Expressions I didn’t know were humanly possible.
If looks could kill, I’d have needed legal representation.

And, of course, the silent treatment would follow… for an unspecified duration.

Ah, the rooms.

If parenting had an Olympic sport, it would be “Cleaning the Teen Bedroom” and I would not qualify.

Open a cupboard, and I’d be buried under an avalanche of questionable-smelling clothes.

Their rooms looked deceptively neat – until closer inspection revealed everything stuffed under beds, crammed into cupboards, or mysteriously vanished without a trace.

Then there were the night-time mysteries.

Just as I drifted off to sleep, I’d hear it – the creak of a door. Footsteps. Outside my room.
Do I get up? Do I wait?

When I finally gather the courage to check – nothing. Silence. Darkness.
Sleep? Gone.

And those remarkable phone batteries.

They had a unique habit of dying precisely when curfews were involved. Hours of radio silence… followed by their return just as I was getting ready for work.

Family holidays?
Lovely – as long as I packed a strong sense of humour.

Trying to please everyone was impossible. One child sulking, the other thriving, and me – exhausted, negotiating peace treaties.

I secretly enjoyed the rare moments they snitched on each other.
Victory, I thought.

But before I could act, they’d reconcile … and unite against me.
Game over.

My lectures, I must admit, were legendary – though not for the right reasons.

I had a greatest-hits collection:

• “Money doesn’t grow on trees.”
• “If you want to be treated like an adult, behave like one.”
• “Who is the adult here – you or me?”
• “You have too many friends.”
• “Should I turn the car around right now?”
• “You’ve slept away the whole day!”

And the ultimate classic:
“You’ll understand when you’re a parent—and I hope you have one just like you.”

In hindsight… I should have stopped talking much earlier.

Because the comeback was always swift:
“Mom, you always think you know best.”

That’s when I would dramatically declare:
“If you want me, come and find me.”

(They rarely did.)

There were also those charming moments when they threatened to reveal my private comments – right in front of guests.
Parenthood, I learned, comes with its own brand of blackmail.

And yet… we survived.

They grew into independent individuals, chasing their dreams with confidence and clarity.

Would I have done things differently?
Absolutely!

But I also know this – I did the best I could with what I knew at the time.

And somehow, through all the chaos, noise, and slammed doors…
We got through. Together.