My younger son just turned 20. We went to visit and, at his suggestion, hiked up a hill together. A birthday hike! Only a few years ago, he barely tolerated family walks, slinking off to search for a shred of 3G; I have a great photo of him and his brother in the Icelandic wilderness, surrounded by breathtaking natural wonder, heads bowed, staring at their phones. I took one this weekend of him and his dad cheerfully trekking up a Peak District path in a snowstorm while my head exploded with amazement.
But that’s it – no more teens. No more trails of protein powder and unwashed beakers (I’ve lost track of the one that kicked off a multi-year battle of wills, ending in me dumping it in the garden; maybe a fox took it). I’ll probably never confiscate a phone again, or discover a secret second phone and wearily confiscate that too, or empty the wastepaper basket to find it full of unnervingly good imitations of my signature. I might occasionally put my phone under my pillow with the sound up in case of a 3am emergency, but it’s no longer a habit.
All of that suggests my sons’ teens were a war of attrition. Actually, while we had our inglorious moments (me more than either of them), I loved it. Here’s what I learned.
With small children you’re almost always the solution, whatever the problem is; learning that you almost never are for teenagers is painful, but important. You can help, though: sympathy, acknowledgement, a Twix, a lift, help replacing a lost debit card or just a heartfelt, eyeroll-provoking: “I love you, you’re brilliant, it’ll be OK.”
You can know they sincerely and lovingly have your child’s best interests at heart and think they’re utterly wrong; learning to navigate this is really hard. I don’t know if it helped, but we took our disagreements out of the house when they happened. I remember a lot of cold, un-fun discussions on benches but I think we got a deeper understanding of how the other ticks (as well as mild hypothermia) from it.
Your teen will tell you this frequently, but it also happens to be true: you won’t know or understand more than a fraction of what’s going on in their heads and lives, however much you fret and speculate. There’s a tricky balance to strike between respecting their privacy and showing you care and want to know how and what they’re doing; I definitely didn’t get this right.
For me, it was about forcing myself to have the necessary ones. Sometimes you do need to choose the battle when you’d much rather not (and actually when I did, it often turned out not to be a battle at all – a hard line can be comforting).
Unless both you and your teenager(s) are paragons of forbearance and rationality, you’ll do and say stuff you regret. I’m still haunted by some of mine. But “sorry” is powerful: some of our best conversations came from my apologies. It’s good for them to hear you say you messed up and to get a chance to forgive you.
God, we watched so much TV – endless sitcoms every night. It was a no-pressure, lighthearted way to be near each other, whatever else was happening, and we needed that.
I felt as much – maybe more – delight and wonder when my sons and their friends became adults as I did when their limbs were first unfurling, or when they learned to speak; you get the same amazing glimpses of who they are becoming (perhaps someone who voluntarily climbs mountains). Your home will fizz with possibility; it’s exciting, occasionally confronting, so funny. It’s tidier and quieter now, but I miss that, a lot.
People tell you this about childbirth and hmm, my perineum begs to differ. But – and I don’t think this is just the rosy amnesiac glow of hindsight – any pain you go through in the teenage years (a time when you are, essentially, birthing new adults) is absolutely, wonderfully, worthwhile.
Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
I loved having teenage kids – but I was often terrible at it. Here are eight things I eventually learned
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10.03.2024
My younger son just turned 20. We went to visit and, at his suggestion, hiked up a hill together. A birthday hike! Only a few years ago, he barely tolerated family walks, slinking off to search for a shred of 3G; I have a great photo of him and his brother in the Icelandic wilderness, surrounded by breathtaking natural wonder, heads bowed, staring at their phones. I took one this weekend of him and his dad cheerfully trekking up a Peak District path in a snowstorm while my head exploded with amazement.
But that’s it – no more teens. No more trails of protein powder and unwashed beakers (I’ve lost track of the one that kicked off a multi-year battle of wills, ending in me dumping it in the garden; maybe a fox took it). I’ll probably never confiscate a phone again, or discover a secret second phone and wearily confiscate that too, or empty the wastepaper basket to find it full of unnervingly good imitations of my signature. I might occasionally put my phone under my pillow........
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