When my girls were little, people at the library or church or in the grocery store would smile at them and tell me, “They’re adorable . . . but just wait until they get to be teenagers.”
I didn’t know what, exactly, it was that I was waiting for.
I supposed it was all the things people talk about when the subject of raising teenagers—especially that particular breed of progeny known as the “teenage daughter”—comes up.
I thought maybe I was waiting for when they wouldn’t need me anymore. I didn’t know I was waiting for when they would need me more in deeper, heart-level ways.
I thought maybe I was waiting for when they wouldn’t like me. I didn’t know I was waiting for when we would be not only mother and daughters, but friends.
I thought maybe I was waiting for when they wouldn’t want anything to do with me.
I didn’t know I was waiting for when they would want to do movies and shopping and lunch and, sometimes, just nothing with me.
I thought maybe I was waiting for when my opinion wouldn’t matter to them. I didn’t know I was waiting for when they would send a text—”What do you think of this?”—attached to a picture of a dress they were considering buying.
I thought maybe I was waiting for when they would be self-absorbed and oblivious to the interests of others. I didn’t know I was waiting for when we would be at a family gathering and I would be busy in the kitchen and they would say, “Mom, I made you a plate of food. I got you some of that dip you like because it’s almost gone.”
I thought maybe I was waiting for when they would walk away from the foundation of faith their dad and I tried to lay for them. I didn’t know I was waiting for when they would choose faith for themselves and make it their own.
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I thought maybe I was waiting for when I wouldn’t be able to get them to tell me anything about their lives. I didn’t know I was waiting for when they would say to me, “Something amazing happened today, and my first thought was, ‘I can’t wait to tell mom about this!’”
I thought maybe I was waiting for when I would cringe at their clothing choices. I didn’t know I was waiting for when they would tell me, “Mom, you look so cute! Can I borrow that shirt next week?”
I thought maybe I was waiting for when all the things I used to do for them when they were little no longer meant anything to them. I didn’t know I was waiting for when they would text me during the day and ask, “Is there any way you can have some chocolate chip cookies ready for me when I get home?”
I thought maybe I was waiting for when they wouldn’t talk to me.
I didn’t know I was waiting for when they’d ask, “Can I talk to you about something?” and, afterward, would tell me, “I’m so thankful I have a mom who always makes me feel better.”
I thought maybe I was waiting for when they would only think of themselves. I didn’t know I was waiting for when they would text me a picture of a dress they’d just found in a resale shop, along with the question, “Do you like this for yourself?”
I thought maybe I was waiting for when they’d tell me not to worry about them anymore. I didn’t know I was waiting for when they would sometimes worry about me, too.
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My college freshman came home from school a couple of weekends ago, and every once in a while, I’d forget she was there. I’d pass by a room and see her in it, and it was like finding a gift under the tree on Christmas morning that you forgot you’d asked for.
When my daughters were little, I thought maybe I was waiting for when they would leave.
I didn’t know I was waiting for when they would come back.
My sweet girl hung around that weekend as long as possible. A few minutes before she left, she came up to me in the kitchen and said, “I love you. Thanks for letting me stay.”
It was so worth waiting for.
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