Right Here Waiting for You
My new nickname at home is Puberty Patrol. Admittedly so, I’m on the constant lookout for the inevitable changes my children are and will be enduring over the next few years. I’m not exactly sure why I’ve become somewhat obsessed with this because, in many ways, it is absolute torture for all involved. The zits, the moods, the hair and the emotional outbreaks… need I say more?
Of course there also comes the awkward conversations which my children have ZERO interest in participating in, as well as the emotional triggers we grown-ups experience too. Just saying, as mature as I attempt to be, I will admit to feeling the semi-uncomfortable feelings rising from the ashes when chatting about periods and such. If anyone has a remedy for this, please feel free to share.
Let’s be real, this stage of parenting stirs up a boat load (perhaps cargo ship load is a better analogy) of unwanted memories… aka: shit. The devastating, embarrassing, traumatic moments we thought would magically disappear once that chapter was closed. The truth is… none of this goes away, but perspective, humor and healing can give these memories new life and a new meaning.
My childhood friend… if you’re reading this… and you very well might, please know I love you and I greatly appreciated this small, super… dooper embarrassing moment in time.
Winter, 1991. Like most 8th graders, I was navigating my own bouts of acne, dousing my face with Sea Breeze drenched cotton balls in hopes that a zit (or a few) would magically disappear. FALSE ADVERTISING. To add insult to injury, I was also the lucky receiver of an amazing case of the chicken pox (thank you darling 8 year old sisters). Prior to the chicken pox vaccine, most children got hit with this earlier in life…. not me….8th grade.
After a two week time I was considered contagious-free and ready to engage with the world once more. My first outing…. the school dance.
I had that excited, crush-like feeling anticipating seeing my kind-of boyfriend for the first time in a while. As I prepared for the dance, wearing all the things that screamed early 90s, I was feeling fairly confident that I looked good. Looking in the mirror I said “Well, my face doesn’t look thaaaaaat bad, no one will notice.” A few zits, mixed in with some dwindling chicken pox scars… I’ve got this!
WRONG. While the gymnasium was modestly lit and Richard Marx’s “Right Here Waiting For You” (ironic) sang softly over the speakers, my kind-of boyfriend must have caught a closer look. The next thing I knew, he asked me to go outside with him (Did he want to kiss me? WRONG AGAIN). With a circle of his hands, motioning towards my face, he said “THIS….. THIS will not work out anymore.”
That was that. Dumped and scared (literally and figuratively).
I’ve shared this story with both my children in hopes that I can soothe any awkward experiences they might be going through. My daughter, however, promptly reminds me “You can’t compare me to you mom.” She’s right. I can’t strum up stories of my past in hopes that they will erase my own children’s suffering or uncomfortableness.
One of the hardest things I’m learning as a parent is allowing my children to feel their hard feelings. To feel their disappointments. To feel their sadness. So much of me wants to swallow it for them or wave my magic wand (I don’t have one). But letting my children move through these years and TRUSTING that they can do it and they will be OK is what I’m learning to lean on.
And so yes, Luke and Harley, I will be Right Here Waiting For You. And I promise (will try) to let you experience these years the ways you need to experience them while loving you in all of your puberty glory.
