Letter to My Teenager

Dear Ruby,

You are now thirteen. A teenager. A little…well, an almost-taller-than-your-rather-tall mother woman.

Can we slow down this train a little bit? Abba’s “Slipping Through My Fingers” plays in my head as I stand on my tippy toes to brush your hair. There is a saying by one of my favorite authors, Gretchen Rubin — “the days are long, but the years are short.” You probably won’t get it now, but someday when you’re a mother, you will. See, the day-to-day can be grueling: changing diapers, forcing your wiggling arms into down jackets, picking up toys (endlessly). Those days seemed long. But the years, the bigger picture of time, those whiz by. It seems like just yesterday when the nurse laid you on my chest for the first time, but it has been thirteen incredibly rewarding years.

I remember my 13th birthday. I felt so awkward. And fat. And dorky. You are not awkward, fat, or dorky. You are this incredible creature with amazingly thick sable hair that I can’t believe I birthed.

I like you. I like spending time with you. Your easy-going spirit is a gift. You’ve always been so easy. Sleeping through the night from the very beginning. Your first few days of life, the nurse actually made me wake you up because you had slept so long. Rarely an outburst; I could count the number of Target temper tantrums or mall meltdowns you had on one hand.

I’ve never felt so vulnerable and helpless as I have with you. When I was pregnant with you, I read a saying, “having a child is like having a little piece of your heart walking around outside your body.” Couldn’t be more true.

Before you were born, as hormones coursed through my veins, nausea raged, and I could only stomach Taco Bell chicken soft tacos with extra sour cream, I constantly feared losing you. After years of trying, I just couldn’t believe how lucky I was; I wanted you so badly. At your birth, the umbilical cord was looped around your neck. Every time I had a contraction, your heart rate would dip and I’d panic. The first night in the hospital, you choked on phlegm and I choked like a statue, unable to help you as the nurse sprung into action. Every time I bathed you, I worried you’d drown. On my watch, you fell down the stairs and I felt guilty for days. Even with my hypervigilance, you almost got hit by a cab in Baltimore. And now, I’m expected to just let you walk around by yourself surrounded by cars, mean people, and random threats. I have to let you go, hope that I’ve taught you well and that the angels watch over you.

As part of my heart, we are permanently connected. On our trip to Disneyworld we were in lockstep, in tune with each other; we both tired at the same time, ready to leave, not needing to tough out the line to ride the teacups.

We’re alike in so many ways. Discipline and math prowess. Your “generous” Henderson nose. Strong quads, delicate lean upper body. Inability to do pushups. Steady demeanor. Car sickness. Not crazy about roller coasters. I love when you do things like I do, borrow my clothes, want to be like me. Makes me think I’m doing something right. I like that you want to be around me.

Seeing my self-perceived flaws, things I hated about myself when I was your age, now embodied in you makes them all make sense. I realize now that genetics were at play creating my big nose and quads, which don’t seem so big on you. And those damn pushups that I couldn’t do in elementary school? It wasn’t because I was weak…it was because I have long limbs and was bigger than most of the other girls. Seeing all this now through the lens of you, makes them acceptable…beyond acceptable actually, badges of honor.

Self-control courses through your veins. What teen gets themselves up, flosses, does their homework? And all without nagging. You aren’t perfect - your room could use some love and you do like to leave trash and dishes around - but I like that you aren’t perfect. Perfection is overrated.

While I revel in our similarities, I marvel at our differences: your dark raven hair, chestnut eyes. You’re different than me and better. You have stronger drive and are more fearless. You push me to step outside my comfort zone because I want to be my best me for you. You are my ultimate inspiration. The Adventure Park, zip lining, Poetry Slam? You inspired them all.

We put you through the stability ringer with two houses, shuttling back and forth. Yet you’ve always just gone with the flow and accepted our 21st-century family. You embrace your step-family like blood, telling things to Bob that I don’t even know.

I want to spare you pain and share all I’ve learned. I want you to be better than me. Knock it out of the park on your Annie solo, keep playing soccer even when it gets boring, nail pushups even though none of the gym teachers adequately know how to teach a girl who isn’t pencil thin how to do them. While you’re knocking life out of the park with optimism and focus, I still have a few tidbits of advice for you:

Lead with your heart

Don’t let the jerks and meanies, and there will be plenty of both, get to you. Lead with love, lead with your heart, and lead with kindness. Respond to haters with a smile. They really hate that.

Disconnect daily

It is so easy to be entertained by your devices. Turn them off and find a quite place at least once a day.

Read and write more

The more you read, the better you’ll write. The better you’ll write, the better you’ll do in school and in work.

Find movement you enjoy

We are built to move. Find movement you enjoy and do it daily. Movement will improve your mood and creates momentum. Don’t let your momentum stagnate on the couch.

Don’t put anything on the internet that you wouldn’t want me to see or that you don’t want to live online FOREVER.

It’s okay to like the bad boy, just don’t marry him.

Try not to use the word hate.

Always, always, always remember that I love you, wholly and completely. Even when I’m mad. Even when you’ve messed up. I have your back and will always love you with all my heart.

Love, Mom