This week, my youngest child turns thirteen, officially marking the beginning of my journey as a mother to three teenagers. (It’s no wonder I’m experiencing more gray hairs.) Navigating the teenage years is incredibly stressful. In their younger days, I dictated their choices—what they ate for breakfast, what TV shows they watched, who their friends were, and when they went to bed. In retrospect, how complicated could that have been? Even if breakfast was less than ideal, I could always rectify it during lunch. Now, however, my children are making decisions that can lead to significant and lasting consequences, and it feels like I’m running out of time to instill essential life lessons.
There’s also the constant anxiety surrounding internet safety, substance abuse, their futures, safe sex, texting while driving, and even the simple worry of whether they remembered to wear clean underwear. I dread the thought that if they were involved in an accident, everyone in the hospital would judge me as a negligent parent.
To all the mothers of older kids who once expressed sympathy for my struggles as a new mom—when I was a sleep-deprived, disheveled mess, smelling of sweat and sour milk—you told me things would get easier. I held onto that belief like a lifeline, hoping for a glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel. As my clingy toddler transitioned into a little person who wouldn’t let me out of his sight, I clung even tighter to your words of encouragement. I endured years filled with dirty diapers, toppled Christmas trees, and grocery store meltdowns while waiting for that promised ease. I survived countless episodes of being splattered with bodily fluids and stepping on sharp Legos, all while hearing, “Don’t worry. It gets easier.”
By that point, I had journeyed through motherhood long enough to understand that relief was not coming soon. But still, I held onto hope. At least I was getting some sleep, which was crucial for managing endless questions and the chaos of everyday life. I was juggling everything from rescuing fish left out of their tanks to unclogging toilets stuffed with odd items. I had sung “The Wheels on the Bus” more times than I could count and dealt with baking disasters, all while carrying a squirming baby on my hip. “Don’t worry. It gets easier,” you said.
And now, I am faced with slamming doors, eye rolls, and boundary-pushing behavior. I navigate open discussions about my decisions, confrontations regarding fairness, and the challenges of their social lives. It’s about dropping everything when a teenager needs to talk and tackling subjects like fractions, curfews, prejudice, and the risks of date rape. It’s handling friend drama and the unsettling realization that someone sent my daughter inappropriate photos.
Don’t even suggest that it gets easier. I vehemently reject that notion.
I’ve transitioned from soothing scraped knees to mending broken hearts. I’ve swapped sleepless nights spent rocking a baby for sleepless nights spent worrying about choices they could make in my absence—choices that could alter their lives and mine forever. I’ve traded “The Wheels on the Bus” for “Be Responsible.” The questions have evolved from “How does this work?” to “Why is she so cruel?”
Yet, they still have an insatiable appetite—some things never change. And thankfully, I no longer smell like baby vomit, so there’s that.
In some ways, life has indeed become easier. I can leave the house without small children in tow, enjoy stretches of sleep longer than three hours, and I haven’t had to deal with vomit in months. However, certain aspects have become significantly more challenging. Plus, let’s face it, they’re not as cute as they used to be, making forgiveness a bit tougher.
What I truly heard when you said, “Don’t worry. It gets easier,” was that life would revert to a sense of normalcy—that I could once again shower uninterrupted or think without considering how my choices affect my children. I longed for the pre-kid version of myself, free from the stress of nurturing young lives.
But after having children, you must establish a new normal. Sometimes, that normal involves wearing old sweatpants because nothing else fits, learning to dodge scattered toys, or hiding chocolate on top of the fridge. It may also mean functioning without caffeine or a good night’s sleep while still cherishing every moment. It’s about bandaging cuts and tackling tough conversations. Above all, the new normal is a profound love that can be overwhelming.
As the mother of three teenagers, it involves setting boundaries, allowing them to stumble, and offering reassurance. It’s having difficult discussions, brushing off eye rolls, and stepping back when they make mistakes—one of the hardest tasks imaginable. The new normal is about trusting your children to make wise choices and loving them even when they falter.
This journey is far from easy. But it is, in fact, normal.
To all the mothers of young children out there, ignore the advice that it gets easier. They mean well, but they are mistaken. It doesn’t necessarily become easier, but it does evolve. Those little beings are not the same as they were a year, a month, or even a week ago. Fortunately, neither are you. You grow, learn, and adapt as you navigate this journey.
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In summary, motherhood is a journey filled with challenges and changes. While the difficulties may not lessen, they morph into new experiences that shape both you and your children.