Dear Readers:
My playful ribbing of my friends has paid off. Nick has come through with a guest post about dealing with teenagers — a frequent topic of mine. His oldest is older than mine, so he’s been through it.
And for the rest of you (Julia, Royce, Kerstin, TJ), don’t worry about it being perfect. That’s what editors are for. Send it!
Love,
Beth
Advice for harassed parents (or how I learned to stop worrying and love my kid)
Guest post by Nick (aka He Who Has Been There)
My eldest son just turned 18. Here in the U.K., thatās it: All milestones hit. Heās now a grown man, even though if he buys beer heāll still get challenged for appearing to be under 21, despite the drinking age being 18. Go figure. He can have a house, car, family — all that. First, he needs to get a job. But weāll leave that particular bone of contention for another time.
Getting this far wasnāt easy. I canāt count the amount of times Iāve said something along the lines of āYOUāLL PICK UP THAT SOCK/PLATE/INDETERMINATE MATTER IF YOU WANT TO SEE YOUR NEXT BIRTHDAY,ā which was normally met with an exasperated sigh or the dreaded eye-roll. See, the thing is, and this is important for anyone with a kid whoās in the middle of those teenage years to know:
Youāll always LOVE your kid. Itās okay to not LIKE them sometimes.
Itās easy when theyāre small. For example, itās cute when they get so excited at Christmas that they literally piss themselves. Or, when potty training is happening, they get their junk caught in a CD case and run into the kitchen shouting āME NO LIKE!ā (Both real, both SURE to mortify the boy if he ever reads this.)

Here’s Nick. Innocent. He has no idea what this creature will become in just 10 or so years.
But as they grow in size, they also get this disastrous condition called ātheir own personality.ā Shocking, I know. And when they get to about 12, 13? That personality generally stinks. As do they, because puberty takes no prisoners where body odour is concerned (Note from Beth: “Odor” as we Americans shun unnecessary letters).
The smallest things become battlegrounds.
Concerned Parent: āHave you done your homework?ā
Insolent Child: *AUDIBLE EYE ROLL*
CP: āMay as well get it done now, kid Then itās finished so youāve got the weekend to yourself.ā
IC: āGOD.ā (Stomps away)
A hill that we both picked to die on was a matter of hygiene. As in, brush your goddamn teeth. Heād wake up, have breakfast, and sit in the living room in his trademark sullen silence. When I would ask if heād brushed his teeth, the look of horror and disgust was as if Iād offered him a lightly grilled stoat (Note from Beth: This is British-speak for weasel) as an aperitif. Heād eventually stomp away to the bathroom, but only after Iād shown him the Big Book of British Smiles. (Our teeth arenāt really that bad, but it made a point, and “The Simpsons” is gold.)
Then.
One magical day a few months before his 18th birthday, he all of a sudden stopped being this terrible-smelling, silent protagonist in his own Greek tragedy, and became a larger version of the kid I used to know. Hairier, with a deeper voice (no seriously: Heās like a skinny white version of Barry White, fer chrissake), but actually nice to be around. I look forward to our movie nights. Sharing a beer with the kid. Actually having a human conversation.

Here’s Nick with his son, who has regained human form. Neither has the capacity to smile for a selfie, apparently.
So, parents of teenagers: Hang in there. It gets worse before it gets better. But when it gets better, itās great!
If only heād get off his arse, and get a job …
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