Chaperone

So... The teens. All the friends. They're adorable. They've been around for years and years. I know them.  I love them. I've coached them - sometimes even off the field.

I pride myself on being the fun mom.

And, I am.

As long there are no shenanigans.

Want me to rent a super fun trampoline on the lake for all your friends to jump on in the sun?
-Here's my credit card.

Want to go to the latest Marvel movie?
-Yep, I'll take you and buy popcorn.

Want new Jordans for Christmas?
-I'm on it.

Want chocolate chip cookies?
-Done.

Want to have a kitchen dance party before dinner?
-Let's do it! I'll bring the dance moves.

Want blue highlights in your hair?
-Totally. Let's go to the beauty supply.

Think you and your friends are going to sneak around in this house? You think 'Seven Minutes in Heaven' is going to happen here?
-Nope.

You all turned 13 over night. Literally a blink of an eye. I might be 40 but I was 13 not too long ago. Two blinks ago, in fact.

I know how your little hormonal brains work. You are outmatched. At least at this point. 

My job is to teach you (all) to be grown up(s). My job is to make it hard. I know you're going to be in the backseat of the car... my job is to make that a challenge. Don't even think that I won't be out there with a flashlight. That's my job. I'm the mom.

I am fine with Truth or Dare when the dare is 'sniff these socks' or 'eat a dog biscuit' but when I hear the office door close... I'm on it. Like a bloodhound. Or an eagle.

You think that going off together in a dark room is a good idea... but those rooms have windows. I thought of this.

Because I am not 13.

Always watching.

Tribe, etc

Tribe, group, gang, clan, squad... whatever term works. Find them. Love them. Hold onto them until they beg you to stop and quit returning your calls.

I have written about my reliance on Functional Friendships. Every one has them, not everyone calls them that. It's essentially your circle(s) of friends, how they overlap or don't and how they fill important areas of your life.

Squad sounds so much more fun than functional friendship...

"Wanna hang with the squad this weekend?" is a lot more inviting than, "would you care to join my functional friendship for dinner?"

As I am now pushing on 41 (holyshithowdidthathappen) and going through some pretty significant life situations, my reliance on friends grows. Just knowing that I can make a call, even if I don't, is very powerful and comforting.

I grew up watching my mom with her circle. Her functional friendship was called, French Club. In all the years, I don't think they ever learned anything French, except wine labels. Beer on sunny afternoons, wine in the evening, chatting, jumping in and helping out.

This is nothing new, this is women over the ages. We come together, we help, we support.

Over the last few years a number of friends have lost a parent, divorced or gone through something equally traumatic.

This is middle age.

Sitting at a table yesterday, with friends, after a funeral, it all becomes clear:

We've got each other.

No matter what.

Lucky 13!

Oh. It's happening. The boy is soon to be a teenager. Sigh. Thinking back to 13 years ago, the excitement of labor crushed by the fear of complications. The urgency of the C-section. Listening to the heart monitor. Willing him to cry. Joining him when he did.

Always little to me.

My big boy. My son.

What an adventure.

His bright blue eyes. Now behind glasses. His teeth wrapped in metal. His big puppy feet. His silliness starting to dull. Some days it feels like everything is changing.

He walked into the kitchen the other day, sighed, rolled his eyes and said, "Mom. Your hair."

I had been so bold as to wear it in its natural curly state.

"It looks so much better straight."

At least he speaks to me.

We're moving from 'tween', also known as asshole, to full on teen. Not sure what that actually translates to. Likely worse than asshole. He's growing. He's maturing. A little.

He's still my sweet little boy much of the time.

His sense of humor is maturing, his jokes are better. He's better at sarcasm, he can drop a nice dig.

He used the term gold-digger properly the other day. In a complete sentence, even. Yes. Yes, I'm proud.

I'm also terrified. He'll soon be ruled by hormones and bad decisions. Not that I want him to be perfect. I don't. I want him to make mistakes and learn. Just not such large mistakes that they alter the course of his life or someone else's.

Looking for just enough for a solid grounding and quality time spent in his room.

Here's to 13, buddy! Cheers!

And, you're grounded.

I'm sure there's a reason.

That'll have rum in it before I know it.