You’re warned about a lot of ages and stages as a parent — the terrible twos and the threenager years and of course the craziness of the actual teenage years. You know going into this gig that as your kids get older, they’ll step into their independence more and more and lean on you less and less. But it’s hard to know just how it’s going to feel when it happens. It seems like overnight, we went from dishing about all the things that happened at school to mumbles and exasperated sighs when I asked more than my daily allotment of questions.
My kids are both in the double digits and every day, I feel a little more obsolete. Don’t get me wrong, when they were young, I craved time alone when someone wasn’t screaming Mooooommmmmm down the hallway. A 30-minute uninterrupted stretch reading my book was pure bliss. But now that I’m actually getting more of those quiet moments, they’re bittersweet.
Here’s the funny part: I’ve noticed lately when I explore this newfound freedom, my girls feel some kind of way about it. On the one hand, when I’m trying to get the scoop on how their day was or if there’s anything they want to talk about, they make sure to let me know how annoying (and apparently, extra) I’m being. But other days, when I’m not in the mood to face the sting of their rejection, I don’t ask. Of course, I’m not ignoring my kids, but I don’t pester them as per the usual. And the result? All of a sudden they want to share every moment of their day.
I pick them up from the bus and ask how their day went, or if anything interesting happened, and I’m met with the most basic, minimal answers at best. What was for lunch today? Do you have anything to study for this week? Did you see those jelly beans raining from the sky? All I get is an eye roll and a look that says I’m doing too much. In an attempt to lean into our new dynamic, I implemented a new routine to try to take it all in stride. Once we’re home, I head to the kitchen to start dinner, pop in my headphones, and let them get to their homework. Slowly but surely, they make their way over, ask for snacks, and drop a few details about their day. It’s like they want me around, but just not too much, and honestly, I don’t know how to feel about it.
Apparently, this stage has a name — it’s called “potted plant parenting.” Our tweens and teens still need us, but in a much less hands-on way. Our kids treat us like their favorite emotional support house plant they can’t go without. They don’t need you to ask how they’re feeling, but they also want to know you’re around if they want to vent. They want to look over in the windowsill and see that you’re there, still soaking up sunlight and waiting for them. And I guess I’m starting to make peace with that. What can I say? I want to be needed. Yes, I’m more than just a mom, but being their mom has been a huge part of my identity up to this point. But being regaled to a cute little succulent in the corner of their lives is harder than I thought it would be. It isn’t a surprise — I knew it was coming. I just thought I’d have more time. In the early days, when you’re really in the thick of it, exhausted, and so over not being able to get a five-minute shower in, you can’t wait for the kiddos to get a little older. In those moments, it seems like it’ll be easier. The reality is it’s just a different kind of hard.
After all, it makes sense. When we raise well-adjusted, happy, healthy kids, they naturally grow into independent young people, but watching them get to that point is more difficult than I thought it would be. Of course, it used to drive me up a wall when I’d get a play-by-play of every moment I wasn’t present for. And I can’t believe I’m saying it, but not being the go-to for every little thing breaks my heart.
At the end of the day, this is just another phase of parenting that I try not to take personally (along with all those times when the kids were small and gave unfiltered opinions away like candy at Halloween). Hell, I’m three decades into my life, and still, sometimes, I just need my mom. On some level, we always need our parents. And I like to think that whether my kids are 13 or 30, when it comes to the defining moments in their life, my kids will still come to me.
I guess I just have to curb the habit of peppering them with questions about their day (to avoid getting stonewalled). Until then, I’ll just sit back and soak up the phase of parenting — somewhere between the chaos of childhood and the chill of the teenage years. I’ll proudly claim my role as the potted plant. Because sometimes simply being there together, in the same room, gives them their space but also reinforces the fact I’m there if they need me.
Holly Garcia writes about parenting, mental health, and all the lifestyle things. She hails from the Midwest, where she’s raising her daughters and drinking copious amounts of coffee.
