I am broadly of the view that you get the teenagers you deserve. In the vein of you reap what you’ve parentally sown. I don’t mean this in the nature/nurture debate way, I’m pretty sure both of those play a role, and who knows where the line is? But rather if you weren’t reading model parenting books when they were 8, you can’t pick one up when they’re 15 and expect it to work. It’s not that you can’t can’t. If you’re absolutely committed, did everything in the book and stuck with it, well you could probably get some sort of result. But if you didn’t follow a script, embody a philosophy, or practice an approach when they were young, what realistic expectation is there that you will do so when they’re older? Face it, you are a parent who relies on instinct, your current energy levels, and how far into the wine bottle you’ve progressed, for most of your most authentic parenting decisions. 

And when I say you, we all know I mean me, right? 

When they become teenagers, they switch, don’t they? I suppose the change is gradual, but it feels almost overnight. That metamorphosis is fairly well advertised, so I can’t pretend to be surprised by it. Similarly we are promised the sunlit uplands of their emergence as their adult selves at the end of the ordeal, when all the good parenting will come home to roost. (And I’m pretty sure that this is meant literally, something like half of 20-24-year-olds live with their parents…). But what took me aback was the difference between teenage boys and teenage girls. 

I have both, and I can safely say for those who suspect it but need it verified, that girls are harder, especially for mums. I have one teenager, a boy, who is 50kgs of pure cynicism. He is all withering looks and eyerolls. That is, if he even deigns to listen and speak. Oh sure, occasionally he has a lovely, sweet moment (your dad put you up to this, didn’t he?), but unless it’s his Macbeth homework, he does not think I have anything useful to contribute to his world. And let’s face it, even with Macbeth, my advice is sometimes questionable (what are you on about, Lady Macbeth is some sort of proto-feminist symbol?). All of which is sweet, sweet water off the duck’s proverbial back. I see his charm through his sarcasm, his love through his lethargy, his warmth through his scorn. I roll my eyes amusedly in return and think, “teenagers, eh?”.

Then there’s the girl. She does no worse, if anything she has more charm and poise in her lip-curls. She has the semblance of civility. Sometimes it’s just a look, or the absence of acknowledgement. But oh, how it cuts me to the quick. I am instantly rendered insecure, full of self-doubt and walking on egg-shells. I must win her back, be her bestie, gain her admiration. I have this strong need that she must consider me cool, want to hang out with me, enjoy my company.

But good grief, why? After much thought, I have decided it must be because a teenage girl judging me is taking me back to my own teenage self, when the biggest, most soul-sucking, threat, was that of the contempt of my female peers. And she is so much cooler than I ever was at her age – so instinctively I need her to like and approve of me. It is bizarre to me that the strength of that teenage emotional memory is so strong that it infiltrates my relationship with my daughter. 

Or maybe I’m completely wrong, and it’s just that girls are inherently more complicated. Generally speaking, most of the boy’s problem can be solved with food. The girl’s? Aye, there’s a rub.

Whilst we are on the subject of my kids, I will tell you that my youngest is still pre-pubescent (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it) and I hang on to that like a lifeline. Dodgy back or none, I still think I can lift him up (reader, I cannot, he’s 13). And he is content to play up to that role, in fact it suits his agenda (which is minimalist). We are symbiotic in this relationship. I desperately need him to stay infantile (what do you mean, you need to shave?!) and he needs me to expect nothing but cuddles from him.

Win-bloody-win.