.SOMETIMES RAW.

As you may know, I have an 11 year-old son. Yikes! Preteen material! I think I am doing a great job raising him but sometimes I worry about losing the connection with my funny, vulnerable little boy as he gets older. But then, as time goes on with its incredibile speed I think that it will be just the way it is now, only he will be a sweet-hearted young man, and I will feel very short. Here, I will shares completely subjective rules for raising a pre-teenage boy…

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I hadn’t realized that raising a preteen boy would involve all the tenderness of a violin spilling out a persistent heartbreaking melody in the background — and also, of course, all the crash-banging of a drum set. But it’s both things all the time. The main rule, which you may already know, is to love this big kid fiercely and excessively.

1. Teach them to respect women. Not in the pretty-object-on-a-pedestal way of things and art; in the way of real, human equals with a right to their self-determination, intelligence and space on the subway.

2. Enjoy the same funny conversations you’ve always had, especially while walking in the woods or cuddling on the couch.

3. Love them for sleeping late. The only other option is to not love them for sleeping late, since sleeping late is itself a given. They’re creating more new human flesh every day, and it’s exhausting! (Remember pregnancy?) When they stagger out at 2 p.m. with their man-sized arms and legs and their sleep-creased baby faces, you can just say, “Did you have a good sleep, my love?” instead of “Good AFTERNOON,” as all of our own passive-aggressive parents did. And you might be treated to a languid smile, a comfortable stretch, and the simple pleasure of the words, “I did.”

4. Be kind to your child, even if it seems like he doesn’t notice or care. He does. Treat him to burgers, to barbecue, to a big smile, a cup of tea, the benefit of the doubt. When he lies down in your bed to be near you and the dog, you can go ahead and keep reading your book but it’s okay to brim with joy.

5. Prepare for cranky questions to emanate from the open fridge: “Is the salami all gone?” “Wasn’t there leftover steak?” Answer with your sunny good nature. “It is!” “You ate it!” Remind your son that he is welcome to restock the fridge.

6. Familiarize yourself with the expression “second dinner,” and buy lots of frozen entrees for hungry nighttime foragers.

7. Enjoy the beautiful, gentle, funny boy who says things like, “Same,” to make you laugh after you muse aloud that your period is killing you. 

8. Be trustworthy. Be respectful. If they turn to you with something bad or hard, the first message should be, “I’m so glad you told me.” The second message should be, “How can I help?”

9. Assuming you actually want your son to join you, whatever it is you’re doing, the answer to the question, “Is it okay if my friends come with us?” is always yes. Also, you will remember when he was too shy to invite people over.

10. Relatedly, keep around plenty of books and games to give the kids lots of inspiration and fun things to fill their time with.

11. Preserve your pre-teenager’s dignity. If products like acne wash or deodorant seem called for, these things can be unobtrusively purchased and encouragingly left out. Relatedly, the things you used to do with the bathroom door open? Shaving your leg with a foot in the sink, yanking up your tights? Go ahead and close the door.

12. For everybody’s sake, knock before entering. In fact, maybe even, like, bang a gong outside the door before you get near enough to knock.

13. Take a picture of the heap of gigantic shoes by your front door because one day they will not be there and you will want to tearfully reminisce.

14. Teach them the important life skills: How to send a thank-you note. How to listen and ask questions. How to walk into a kitchen and say, “Put me to work.” How to call their representatives about an important issue. How to clean a bathroom, do a load of laundry, scramble an egg. How to sit patiently on the sofa between their two grandparents with their two new iPhones, nodding slowly and saying, “Here, let me show you,” when the grandparents are convinced the Google has gone missing.

15. Substance-wise, consider moderation over prohibition. That said, if you make one rule, let it be this: “Don’t ever try meth, crack cocaine, or heroin. Ever, ever, ever.” Explain the way these drugs permanently mess up your dopamine receptors (if you need to learn about that first yourself, do).

16. Pick your battles. Personal style is a pretty low-stakes form of self-actualization; if the way they wear their hair or jeans (hello, bum crack!) is not your very favourite, complain about it to a friend.

17. Lying in bed at night, scanning around to check for various dangers and unhappinesses, you will mentally find your son safe in his bed, in his room, in your house. And you will remember to be so, so grateful. Because one day you will buy him a memory foam mattress topper and a set of twin XL sheets and, poof, he will leave behind a heartbreaking boy-shaped hole.

18. Wherever they go, physically or emotionally, understand that they’ll come back to you. And when they do, go ahead and fling your mama arms — your mama heart! — wide open. Wide, wide open.

19. Let them play their computer games once chores and homework is done. Stop constantly nagging about it.

19. Understand that the parameters are constantly changing. Some things should not be repeated under any circumstances. This list is not exhaustive:

Knowing something but explaining it for too long
Pointing out that it’s after 8 p.m.
Asking them to put on their pajamas
Asking if they brushed their teeth
Asking if they peed before bed
Making a joke
Singing
Using slang, yours
Using slang, theirs
Being loud while making a smoothie (for him)

To be clear, my beautiful preteen still asks for bedtime cuddles and makes jokes and wants big life reassurances and climbs into my lap and seeks approval and desperately wants to be loved and accepted, but god forbid I point out that it is 8 p.m.

Let them be in bad moods, but let them know you’re here to help. Their hormones are nuts, their skin and hair is the ugliest it will ever be, they can’t put together an outfit for shit, and they don’t know where they belong in the world. They are becoming independent and still strapped down as young children but feel like they are not kids. It’s hard for them. For my kid, sometimes, I just say, “It’s clear you had a hard day, let’s just make popcorn and watch a movie or talk. You choose”.

Finally! In case you ever worry that you are uncool to the world at large and not just your preteens, I’ll remind you that EVERY parent deals with this. It is not only you! So stop whining.

What would you add?

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“Minimum of 2 years of experience in a similar role”

Ideally, you will have at least 45 years of experience in this exact role. Though, we do want you to be fresh, hip, and innovative. So maybe you can be, like, a clone of Frank, your predecessor, but with some genes from Justin Timberlake spliced in.

“Undergraduate degree required, master preferred”

You have a master’s degree. But it is in English or Philosophy or Theatre or Psychology or some other Liberal Arts concentration that is so woefully useless you’ve stopped putting it on your resume. But that’s good. We like humble candidates. And, even better, this way we know that you’re skilled at prioritizing, cutting the fat, focusing, etcetera.

“Highly organized individual with the ability to manage multiple tasks”

Truthfully, we are all slobs. You should see the break room. But not you. You’re the type that organizes the dishes in the dishwasher according to size and color. Your underwear has your damn name stitched into the waistband—not written with magic marker—stitched. And multiple tasks? You need to be like a Hindu deity juggling swords, reading Proust, baking ziti, tuning a harp, and doing cat’s cradle—all with one eye overseeing a toddler armed with matches and a gas can, and the other eye trying to blink out Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen in Morse code.

“Self-starter who is comfortable trying new things and is quick at learning”

We are not going to teach you a damn thing. In fact, you’re lucky if the janitor makes eye contact with you. You’re all on your own, truly on your own. Think that mom in Room had it bad? Just wait. You’ll need to go from rookie to post-human android virtuoso in about two weeks. All. By. Your. Self. One week would be best.

“Familiar with digital tools and technologies”

Honestly, we have no idea what this actually means but if you know what a computer is you can start in any of our IT Units right away. And even be a supervisor.

“Analytical and strategic mindset”

You’re like the love child of Noam Chomsky and Stephen Hawking playing Scrabble. What the hell does that mean? If you’re the right fit, you’ll know.

“Strong communication skills”

The focus here is on strong. We want meaty communication from you. Steroid communication. When you’re getting your point across, not only the person you’re talking to, but the whole office should understand what you’re saying. But you should be nice too. Comforting even. Actually, really comforting. Like a smooth Bob Ross lullaby. Because, deep down, all of your coworkers—especially the management—are just afraid, insecure, and in need of nurturing and encouraging words. But also keep it strong. That communication should rip the skin off our faces.

“Experience with Microsoft Office, Adobe Photoshop, and Google Docs preferred”

You really think that’s it? My grandmother rifles through spreadsheets like bingo cards. My son can put a Kim Kardashian ass on Michael Jackson while watching Mr Beast. We want you to come in with experiences with software we’ve never even heard of. Surprise us. No, but seriously. You have to. But then you might not get the desired position. And no promotion. Be aware of that.

“Team player with a positive attitude and a sense of humor”

You know how you spell “team” in Albanian? It’s “ekip.” So, fuck you, there is an “I” in “team.” You better act like it too. And your attitude should be exactly what we say it is. At all times. And for Christ’s sake, don’t laugh. Ever. And don’t criticise coworkers.

“A portfolio that demonstrates your skills”

You know what? Actually, forget it. We’re just going to hire our boy Tom with the lisp down in accounting. He’s cool. Plus, he was on our Volleyball team. And he doesn’t mind only making 25000 Euros a year. So, good luck.

In my house, Christmas Time means cuddling up on the couch with hot chocolate to watch Home Alone and Home Alone 2 on repeat. My son and I love it so much and it has become our tradition. And obviously we love Kevin. The other day my son said that he is so happy to have me as a mom and not Mrs McCallister who just forgot Kevin at home or let him take the wrong airplane. When I was his age I also thought that she is the worst mom in the world. Now, many years later, and being a mom myself, I think it is time to write a letter to Mrs McCallister to clarify a couple of things.

Dear Mrs. McCallister,

In 1990, I was about the same age as your son Kevin, and he and I were on the same wavelength—that is to say, I judged the hell out of your parenting. Poor Kevin. The youngest of an indeterminate number of kids, with an antagonistic older brother, a creepy uncle, nasty cousins picking on him in his own home… and a mother who couldn’t give him the time of day.

You said it yourself, Mrs. McCallister: “What kind of mother am I?”

What kind of mother lets her entire family bully her eight-year-old? What kind of mother makes her youngest child sleep alone in a spooky attic? What kind of mother forgets about her baby when she jets off to Paris and leaves him HOME ALONE??

I thought you were the worst mom in the world.

But decades have passed, and Kate—if I can call you Kate, since we’re peers now—I need you to know how sorry I am, because now I’m a mom, too, and I get it.

I get that you’re a working mother of several kids (how many, I’m not sure. I was never entirely clear on who all those kids belonged to).

I get the restraint it took for you to calmly send Kevin to his room after he called you a dummy and said he never wanted to see you again, because I know in moments like those, the natural maternal urge is to follow the offspring up to the third floor and toss it out the window.

I get that your husband, Peter, who is always so cool and calm, can only stay so cool and calm because he doesn’t take on any of the household responsibilities. Maybe he could find his own power cord adapter, or get his act together and pay the pizza guy, or I don’t know, just spitballing here, show some initiative in locating the eight-year-old child you BOTH forgot and left home alone. Maybe Pete could take a beat and do a better job sussing out the vibe of the suspicious “cop” casing your house before you left for vacation.

I get that, in all likelihood, you planned every detail of that vacation and got zero thanks for it.

For me, the month of December is crammed with decorating, planning, Christmas shopping, baking things in the shape of other things, putting together photos, and practising the signature “Christkind” calligraphy I developed when my son was a baby so the kid wouldn’t wonder why Christkind and I had the same handwriting. So I get that every special moment of the holiday season is a heavy burden that falls on your shoulders, and the magic of Christmas exists in your home only because you put it there with your bare hands.

So who can blame you for this one teensy weensy oversight? To your credit, you tried delegating headcount responsibility to the oldest kid (your daughter—or your niece? Again, this was never made super clear), but she messed it up. And she messed it up very confidently, which didn’t help.

You had no support. I get it, Kate. Once you realized Kevin was missing, you tried to enlist the help of the local police, but they were useless. I know they knocked on the door, and nobody answered, but isn’t that kind of a problem? They didn’t think that was even worse? Why is everyone around you so incompetent?

I get that the two days you spent in the airport, on planes, and in the back of a box truck with a polka band were probably the only moments of mental alone time you’d had in years.

I know what you’re thinking: “But then I lost Kevin again the following Christmas, and the same two bandits from the first time chased him around New York City trying to murder him.” Sshh. It’s okay.

Mom to mom, I hope you take some solace in the fact that I get it, and I promise you, we’ve all been there. Moms can’t be on top of everything all the time. Confession time: if I could legally hand my eleven-year-old my Visa card and let him watch movies and order room service on his own in a hotel for a week, I would do it. And if I found out a random pigeon lady in Central Park was looking after my kid, I’d be psyched. Free babysitting? Sign me up.

So now, because it’s Christmastime, I just want to say I’m sorry for ever judging you, Kate. You’re a hardworking mother who’s doing your best. Yes, you forgot your second grader existed until you were flying over the Atlantic Ocean. But you also raised a clever, independent, and resilient kid with a big heart, and that’s every mother’s dream.

And hey, you have a ton of kids to manage (at least three, I think?), so even if on the off chance you left one of them home on purpose, I wouldn’t blame you.

I get it.

Merry Christmas,
Daniela Henry

Also, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all my readers. Thank you so much for reading my stuff.