This year my kids turned 11, 13, and 15. Just looking at that sentence makes my heart leap into my throat just a little bit. As is clearly indicated by those numbers, I'm venturing into uncharted territory. I'm about to be raising three teenagers.
The year I turned 15 was the year I really became a teenager. I struggled with my identity, I fought for my independence, I rebelled, I stopped riding horses so much and I started riding in cars with boys. That was the year I stopped being a little girl.
I wonder if maybe boys don't go through quite as much of a tumultuous year at this time because Bug seems to be a lot less emotional than I was at this age. I am bracing myself for it, ready to help him navigate whatever crazy teenage angst comes our way, but relieved that we haven't hit it yet.
Munchkin, on the other hand, is sailing her ship straight into rough seas. Everything is dramatic. Everything is the end of the world. Everything is the biggest deal EVER. This morning she let me know she only has two pair of jeans that fit her and they were both dirty and therefore she just couldn't go to school because it would be social suicide and how could I not understand this? I made it clear to her, in no uncertain terms, that she was much better off at school in dirty jeans than here with me.
While I realize that these little dramatic episodes are not the worst thing I can hope for when dealing with a teenage girl, I feel like it's a glimmer of what's to come in a couple of years - when she's 15. I'm going to need a life jacket.