Nothing and nobody has prepared me for the pain you feel watching your children grow up. Yes there is joy, lots of joy and laughter and pride and fluffy pink days with bubbles and candy floss. But the pain of growing up into an adult? Nah. Nobody said about that when the second line appeared on the urine covered pregnancy test stick. In fact, if the moment where you commit to that act of sexual intercourse triggered a flashback over your teenage years, birth control would not be an issue. I guarantee it.

Because being a mother to teenagers is like reliving each and every one of those dark days in your teenage past, with full surround sound, HD pictures and emoticons that are in fact real. All of them. From the insane wide tooth smiley to the purple horned devil. All real. And living in your heart, wreaking havoc with your soul.

This is so unfair. I have already done this bit. I was there, remember? I was that girl, never popular, never a star. Who one year did actually get voted in to be class captain (how?), only not to get a single vote the next year (well, one, but that was my own, yes I voted for myself, so did you). How the hell does that even work? I didn’t steal anybody’s boyfriend (chance would have been a fine thing), snitch on the class or fight at break – clearly that’s where I went wrong.

Now I relive the pain of being dropped by your best friend for no apparent reason. I have to watch my daughters struggle with meaness and cruelty. Sometimes I even have to watch them being mean and cruel. I am back there again, the receiving end of petty snipes and vicious rumours. Not knowing who likes you. Not knowing who your friends are. Finding out who is genuine and who is false. Realising that you were wrong on both counts. A lot.

The hardest part? Is not being able to stop this baptism with verbal fire by swooping in there with my black witch’s cape flapping behind me and reducing the little bitches to toads with one icy stare, picking up my daughters and flying to Neverland for endless pink days with bubbles and candy floss.

I need to let them make this journey. Feel the pain, the anger, the sadness. So that they can find wisdom from the wounds, begin to know themselves and try and understand where they fit in and what they need from this world. It’s killing me. I know it’s necessary, but boy, it’s hard.

So today I won’t stop the Queen Bitch when she walks past my car as I wait for my daughters at school. I won’t tell her about the tears I wipe off my daughters’ cheeks. I won’t tell her about the sobs that come so hard and fast that they cannot breathe. I will save my energy for finding silly quotes on the Internet to send to my daughters throughout the day to help them get through it. I will cook them their favourite meals. I will hug them and listen and tell them it will pass even though they don’t believe me and I am quietly praying in the background for God to bloody hurry up with this bit, please.

And I might just trip up the Queen Bitch if I get the chance. Just a little …
(Featured image c Barnes and Noble)