Living with a TEEN!

 

Living with a Teen, & The Great Escape From Responsibility

There comes a time in every young person’s life when he or she suddenly realizes something horrifying:

Parents are people.

This discovery is generally made around the age of 13, and it causes an immediate emergency. The teenager looks up from the phone and realizes that the people standing in the kitchen are not merely the biological entities responsible for food, electricity, transportation, Wi-Fi, and money.

They are actually trying to talk to him.

This is unacceptable.

The teenager therefore begins the Great Withdrawal.

He retreats to his bedroom, closes the door, and establishes a communications policy similar to that of a small authoritarian nation: No unnecessary contact with outsiders. Especially parents.

“Hey, buddy,” the father says.

Silence.

“Did you hear me?”

A pause.

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

This is technically true. He is sitting on his bed staring at a phone.

The phone, of course, is extremely important. It contains approximately 14 billion pieces of information, 13 billion of which consist of videos of people falling off things, cats, someone saying “bro” repeatedly, and a person explaining how to make a sandwich while simultaneously destroying civilization.

The teenager will spend three hours looking at this material without experiencing boredom.

But hand him a book.

Suddenly he behaves like a vampire who has just been shown a crucifix.

“What is that?”

“It’s a book.”

“I know what it is. Why are you holding it?”

“I thought you might read it.”

The teenager recoils.

“Read?”

“Yes.”

“With my eyes?”

“No, with your spleen. Of course with your eyes.”

The teenager backs slowly toward the bedroom.

Books are particularly dangerous because they contain paragraphs. A paragraph is basically a wall of text, except that instead of protecting a castle, it prevents a teenager from immediately seeing what a stranger ate for lunch.

And then there are chores.

Teenagers regard chores with the same enthusiasm that medieval peasants probably felt about being informed that the plague had arrived.

“Can you take out the trash?”

A long pause.

“Why?”

This is not actually a question. It is a philosophical objection.

“Because the trash can is full.”

“So?”

“So we need to take it out.”

“Why can't you?”

This is an excellent question, because the parent is clearly physically capable of taking out the trash. In fact, the parent has demonstrated this ability approximately 4,000 times.

But that is precisely the point.

The teenager has recently developed a fascinating new concept known as delegation, in which he delegates every unpleasant task to the nearest adult.

“Can you get me something to drink?”

“It's in the refrigerator.”

“I know.”

“So go get it.”

“But I'm comfortable.”

This is the closest thing to a sincere philosophical statement the teenager has made all week.

The teenager's bedroom is also an extraordinary environment. Scientists believe it may contain an entirely new ecosystem.

There are socks on the floor.

There are cups on the desk.

There is a plate whose original biological classification is currently under investigation.

There is a hamper.

There is laundry approximately six inches from the hamper.

This is important.

The teenager understands that the hamper exists. He has observed the hamper. He has even acknowledged its function. He has often stacked paper plates and empty soda bottles on it.

He simply does not believe in putting anything inside it. Especially laundry.

This is because teenagers are engaged in an important developmental process called learning to become independent, which apparently means making your parents do everything while becoming increasingly annoyed that they are nearby.

Eventually, though, the teenager will emerge from the bedroom.

He will walk past his parents without making eye contact.

He will obtain a snack.

He will return to the bedroom.

The parent will say, “Love you.”

The teenager will pause at the doorway.

There will be a tiny moment when the ancient wall between parent and child cracks.

The teenager will sigh.

“Love you too.”

Then he will close the door.

And that, really, is the whole thing.

Because underneath the phones, the closed doors, the mysterious laundry ecosystem, the violent opposition to books, and the profound theological objections to taking out the trash, there is still the kid who needs his parents—even if he would prefer that nobody know about it.

So we let him have his space.

We remind him to do his chores.

We occasionally force a book into his general vicinity.

And we continue providing food, shelter, electricity, transportation, Wi-Fi, and the other essential services required to support an independent young person who is apparently unable to locate the laundry hamper from a distance of four feet.

Because someday, sooner than we think, that bedroom door will close for the last time.

And we may actually miss hearing:

“Do you want me to do that right now?”

Which is probably why, every once in a while, we should ignore the phone, knock on the door, and go bother them.

They'll act annoyed.

That's their job.

And ours is to keep showing up anyway.