Growing Up Is Scary And Overwhelming And Uncomfortable, Especially For Adults

My 15-year-old son and I are sitting in the car in our driveway. Ive asked him about his grades, and tripped a live wire.

Simon, the child who has never had to work to succeed, is struggling mightily this year. A high school sophomore, hes juggling a load of advanced academic classes and a busy extracurricular schedule, and those spinning plates have begun to crash all around him. Suddenly, the child who once finished his homework at school cant even start it at home because he didnt understand the lesson. He is frustrated and embarrassed. He doesnt ask for help, thinking hell catch up, and falls further and further behind.

His grades are beginning to cost him. When his performance matched his potential, I enthusiastically supported his full social schedule. He enjoyed very loosely regulated use of his phone and other electronics.

As I watched his grades decline, I began to say no to his requests to hang with his friends after school. We lowered his screen time limits, and cut off his phones cellular data.

This near-police state is uncomfortable for everyone, and long, angry conversations like the one were locked in now have become our new normal.

Why cant you accept that this is just who I am now? Maybe Im not supposed to get good grades anymore! Maybe Ive reached the point where this is just too hard for me.

Im quiet, and he continues.

This is the best that I can do, and its not good enough. I hate coming home. This is all we talk about. Why cant we just stop talking about it? I wish I could go to sleep and have it be next year.

Hes not wrong. We do talk about his grades often, and Im tired of it, too. Unlike when he was 4, he doesnt spend all his time trailing me around the house. We dont exchange 10,000 words in a day. I cant work this topic in between long discussions about Pokemon and Star Wars. I seize any opportunity I have with him alone to check in on his progress. I dont like the dynamic it creates either, but Im stuck.

Dad doesnt talk to me about this stuff. Dad trusts me to manage it.

Simon rarely plays his father and me against each other, but as our eldest, he has the most experience plucking those strings, and the blow initially lands just as he intends. I can feel the blood start to flood my face.

I am already responding in my head. Of course Dad doesnt talk to you about this stuff. Dad doesnt check grades.Even when Dad and I were married, years ago, schoolwork was my domain. This isnt about trusting you, kid; its about Dad delegating to me. Dont flatter yourself. Dont imply that this is about one parent doing their job better than the other.

I steady my focus on the topic at hand.

This isnt about trust. I trust you. I also think you need help. Your grades matter in ways that are hard to see in the near term. What is your plan to improve? How can I help?

He doesnt hear me.

Do you know how much I hate that you and Dad talk about this? That you work to have the same consequence?I cant get away from this pressure anywhere. I hate coming home to both houses.

He continues, voicing frustration about the two houses he occupies, his large blended family, his stepparents. Outwardly, he is a well-adjusted, happy young man. Tonight I am hearing a different side of his story. The anger and sadness continue to boil over, each voiced hurt overtaking the last, like waves tumbling onto the sand.

I stay quiet. I am working hard not to let this trigger my own stuff. He needs a calm adult present, not a mom overwhelmed by her own guilt and grief . I am breathing deeply, concentrating on dropping the tension out of my shoulders and keeping my hand on top of his. Sidestepping my own triggers is tough and requires nearly my full concentration.

He rages on, but he cant drown out the voice in my head. She wonders if Im too hard on him, if maybe Im missing signs of of something bigger. She questions his healing, my parenting, our relationship. She is loud and demoralizing, and I have to fight to stay present with my son.

He pauses, and in the silence, I look across at him. His head is dropped, shoulders slumped. Hes tired from a long day and exhausted by this late-night swirl of emotions. Suddenly I see my little boy in his rumpled six-foot frame and my inner voice goes quiet. I know what he needs. I remember how to be his mama.

Were where were supposed to be, Love, I say softly. All of us. You are supposed to be struggling with grades and school and balance and girls and friends and your parents. Thats what teenagers do. When I was 15, I wasnt a fan of time at home with my family either. My parents werent divorced, but I carried different baggage.

Sorting out your baggage, figuring out how you carry it and how it shapes you is the work of becoming an adult. Figuring out what to do when things break down is more of that work. Asking for help. Trying something new. All of that is the work of growing up, and it is supposed to feel scary and overwhelming and uncomfortable. Its hard. Its supposed to be hard.

I dont tell him how scary and overwhelming and uncomfortable adult work still is. How much I worry about the impact of decisions Ive made and the words I say. How just when I think I have it figured out, everything shifts, and I have to start again. How hard it sometimes is to push through the story Im telling myself and show up for the people who matter most. How years later, I am still learning about the baggage I carry. I dont tell him the truth Im only just learning: Growing up never really ends.

Youre doing your job as a teenager. I am doing my job as your mom. Well find our way through together.

I ruffle his too-long hair and get out of the car. The hour in the driveway is enough for the night.

He grabs his backpack and starts in to the house. I love you, Mom, he says quietly.

I gather his gangly, suddenly grown-up body into an awkward hug. None of him fits where he used to, and he hunches down to put his head on my shoulder. This once-familiar act is uncomfortable for both of us, an achingly obvious metaphor for our interactions of late.

I love you too, Sweetheart, and I hold on.

Kate Chapman is a mom and stepmom to six children, ages 8-15. She writes about her modern-day Brady Bunch adventures at This Life in Progress . A widely-published blended family expert, Kate addresses the tricky topics of divorce, coparenting and stepfamily dynamics. When shes not writing, shes feeding the children and livestock, and turning off lights in empty rooms. Follow Kate on Facebook , Twitter , and Instagram coaching, support and inspiration.