I headed out to the bus stop with my two oldest sons of my five kids. At 11 and 9, and not yet in full preteenhood, I never hesitated to stand in my own driveway in pajamas and slippers. In the mornings, we’d shoot a basketball while waiting for the bus. The long-standing ritual was always a source of bonding and connection for both of us before a long busy day apart. Until that day.
I headed out and greeted one of the neighbor kids headed to the bus stop, “Hey, how’s it going?” And that was enough to set my 11-year-old off into full teen spirit. “UGH, Mom. You’re so cringe.” My head spun around so fast, in full “you talking to me?” style. He was.
As a former high school teacher for 10 years, I knew to take a beat before responding to an insult from a kid. So, we kept playing basketball. But you better believe that the next shot he put up I blocked with all my “my kid just turned into a teen and came at me” vigor. I’d won back a tiny iota of respect. I could tell.
I’d somehow thought we were above this
I was naive — I thought that we had the kind of relationship that would never mean I’d be called cringe (meaning I’d embarrass him, myself, or done something socially awkward). I both knew at some point he’d become annoyed by me or just generally put off by my existence, but I never thought it would be openly hurled as an insult.
I debated bringing up to my son (who I’d greatly embarrassed by properly greeting another kid in our driveway) that his behavior was sort of rude. Was that the word I wanted to use? I wasn’t sure.
As I debriefed with my husband later, and another of my almost-preteen kids overheard the conversation, they even shared that it was cringe that I was worried about being cringe, and that kids call each other cringe all the time, too. I felt a little better.
I knew this was just the beginning
I know teens are supposed to think their parents are weird. Even the “coolest” parents of my former high school students had their own complaints, tried to walk 10 feet ahead, or generally detested much of what their parents did or said.
At that moment, I had to come to the realization that this would be the first time of many. I also had to realize it wasn’t a moment of failure, and that I wasn’t supposed to escape this rite of passage. I also had to wrestle with its meaning, and that it did not mean I was disconnected from my kid.
I started to become more self-conscious of my behavior. And quickly learned that’s the “wrong” answer if you talk to other parents. Friends with teens had fully leaned into their own style, being their “fully weird self,” as one put it.
So at the mention of this one word, all at once, I faced a new parenting question harder than the previous — what kind of parent will I be to this next, older version of my kids? Apparently, one that pouts enough about being called cringe to block his next shot on purpose, then go write a sappy feelings piece about parenting on it. I found my own kind of weird, and I will have to keep finding it again and again, as they grow older and I grow more, well, cringe.
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