I am fifty years old, and for the past three weeks ninth grade has been kicking my butt. The high school is huge. The classes are harder, friendships are changing and getting more complicated, lunch is terrifying, everyone is suddenly focused on who's dating who, life is more competitive, and social media is suddenly the center of everything. It's just a lot.
And I'm not even in high school.
I am the parent of two first-year high school students. I consider myself lucky because they still talk to me. They share their daily ups and downs, and at the moment there are a lot of both. Every day is either the worst day ever or the best day ever, and as a sensitive person, I often feel like I am actually living through it myself.
Last week a funny thing happened. One child had just had the worst day ever. It was epically bad. It involved copious, loud tears that rivaled the worst toddler tantrum I had ever experienced. There were exclamations about unfairness, how bad EVERYTHING is and (of course) how I would never understand. I absorbed every bit of it.
It was awful. I barely slept. I went to work the following morning distracted and worried. I spent the day picturing different aspects of what might be happening in her day. I vented to a few friends, and I waited anxiously for the evening, when I could hear how bad it was and help her work through it. But when I texted her at the end of the day to see how she was, I received a one-word answer.
"Fine."
Later I discovered that the day had, in fact, been better than fine. Life was good. Things were working out. In fact, it was "a GREAT day." I was relieved, and I felt a weight lifted. As we were talking that evening and laughing about how much better life was, I told her about how a friend had helped me through my stress that morning. What she said next shocked me.
"That's great, Mom. What were you stressed about?"
I think my mouth may have literally hung open. Really? Hadn't we just survived the worst day ever? And then it hit me. We hadn't. She had.
Mind. Blown.
It struck me at that moment. I am here as an observer, a driver, a confidant, and a supporter, but this journey isn't mine. It was a sad realization, and yet also a relief. I have already had my high school experience. I survived it once and came out in one piece. And I don't have to do that again.
And yet, the waves keep hitting me. I am the one in the car when the breakdowns happen, or sitting on the edge of the bed listening to every detail of the worst day ever or the best day ever. The highs and the lows all come my way, and I love it, but it is hard.
So, I have decided that I need to learn to surf. I need to face the waves of their lives with the knowledge and life experience that tells me that behind every low is another high, and another, and so on and so on. I need to remember that the hardest parts of my own life probably taught me the most and had the biggest effect on the person I became. While my girls are in the raging waters of teen joy and angst and can't see the big picture, I need to stay on the surface - for them and for my own self-preservation. I need to keep perspective. So, my personal mantra, and what I'll be attempting to do for at least the next four years is simply...
Surfing the waves.
