Oh, the arrogance of the young.
I can say that because I used to be young and arrogant. This was the same era when I went home after my freshman year of college and told my mother she didn’t need to spend 24 hours on her homemade sauce because Prego tasted the same. Now I have two teenagers who correct me with the confidence of Donald Trump using a word incorrectly.
In my twenties, I loved telling people I was destined to be a parent. I really believed I would do it better than my parents. Some would say this was a low bar since all I had to do was avoid being loaded and sleeping with my boss.
Surely I could do better than that.
Here I am today, with two teenagers and no idea if I’m doing anything correctly.
Gone is the Robin who knew what she wanted and acted quickly, without looking back. She has been replaced by lady who says, “Let me talk that over with your mom,” so I can buy time to Google and frantically text five other parents to ask if letting a kid go to a party on a pier is normal or definitely going to lead to heroin usage.
Back when the kids were small, I was more confident. I had all the parenting books. I forced rigid potty training schedules. I obsessed about developmental milestones. I refused to swear in front of the kids, at least until we bought a car and I began screaming things like, “Are you fucking kidding me? You idiot!”
During those early parenting years, when the kids are physically exhausting, I hated when people said things to me like “soak this phase in, you’ll miss it,” or, the absolute worst, “you think this is hard now, just wait.” It is the most dismissive thing you can say to a sleep-deprived parent holding a tantrumming toddler who has just thrown a yogurt at their face.
But I did the same thing to the people behind me. I have a friend currently in the elementary school search. If you aren’t familiar with the New York City school search process, imagine Game of Thrones but with tote bags. And I keep hearing myself say things to my friend like, “Just wait until the high school search.”
Not helpful, Robin.
It turns out every time you think you’ve mastered a phase, the universe hands you a new one and says, “That’s cute. Try again.” All that smug certainty I once had has completely evaporated. Because now I’m in a phase where I genuinely have no idea what to say or do. When they were little, I was bigger and smarter, and I could outmaneuver them.
When our daughter refused to leave home without a princess dress, we invented the “the base outfit”. The base outfit was perfect for winter, school, and any moment we didn’t want her traipsing around in a nearly opaque dress, made of plastic (let’s call it) fabric.
It was so easy to get her to wear the base outfit. “Of course you can wear your princess dress, punkin’. But you have to wear your base outfit. All kids wear it to protect the princess dress.”
Cut to the current day, where I’ve been wondering if one of my kids went to law school when I was not looking, because every conversation is a negotiation, and this kid so skillfully moves me from one conflicting point to another until I snap and shout, “Just no!” and then storm off like a preschooler.
I’ll admit it. Going into parenting I had an unrealistic expectation that I’d nail this parenting thing. Like, how hard can it be?
Well, I didn’t take into account that my kids would hit middle school at the exact moment my body plunged into perimenopause. And I’d fall asleep at nine and wake up eleven hours later feeling both exhausted and outraged. How can a person wake up furious when nothing happened?
I was also not prepared for the fear calculus of parenting teens. My kid will casually ask if they can go to a house party in an abandoned warehouse in Bushwick, like they are requesting a Capri Sun. And I don’t know if I am the reasonable one for screaming absolutely not, or if the other parents are reasonable for saying fine, but be home by eleven, and please avoid the exposed rebar.
For real, I’m asking who is right here.
Today, I would give anything to wrap my daughter in a large, sensible princess dress and a matching base outfit. But even saying that out loud feels like a landmine. If I want her to cover up, am I being antifeminist? Since I have no idea which answer is right, I tend to ramble, saying things like, “Listen. I am sorry you can’t wear that tube top. But you should love your body. Because it’s your body. And you have every right to dress how you like. Except at school. Or maybe on the subway. And also, it’s not your fault, but a lot of men are predators. So, zip up that hoodie, but know that you’re doing it for me, and not the man. And also be safe. And please don’t subway surf!”
Yesterday, before a sleepover, I wanted to tell one of my kids they could always call us no matter what, but somehow I ended up sharing statistics about assault rates that I learned from Mariska Hargitay on a podcast.
It’s like I have no idea what is right or wrong, so I’m just saying all the things.
People tell me to trust that we gave them a good foundation. I suppose they are right, but I also remember being a freshman in college and hitchhiking up “the hill” back to campus, taking a ride with a Domino’s pizza delivery dude who put us in the back of his pickup truck, then drove about 90 miles an hour around hairpin turns. My pal Barb and I laughed and laughed and laughed.
How am I still alive after some of the dumb shit I’ve done?
Anyway.
Let this be my apology to every parent whose “hard parenting phase” I dismissed. And to the ones who said it gets harder, and I rolled my eyes.
I’m going to try to go easy on myself in this new phase of not knowing anything. Maybe it’s some real Buddha stuff. Like I’ve arrived at enlightenment because I have accepted that I know nothing.
I’m going to cross my fingers, hope that’s the case, and then wonder what could possibly be worse to come.
If you know, please do not tell me.
This week’s episode of Well…Adjusting is a good one. I sit down with Michelle MiJung Kim, award-winning author of The Wake Up and host of the brilliant podcast I Feel That Way Too. Michelle tells a powerful story about fear, conviction, and what happens when you decide to stop shaping yourself to other people’s comfort.
We dig into why some people seem naturally courageous, why others freeze, and how we can all build small, everyday practices that help us speak up, stand up, and stop pretending we’re fine when we’re very much not. Steph and I even committed to doing “micro acts of courage” after the interview, and… we actually did them. It was contagious in the best way.
If you need a nudge toward bravery, or just want to hear two hosts with zero credentials trying to keep up with someone who has many, give it a listen.
Click here to hear the episode.
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