I have been one. I have known some. But now that I’m raising one, it all seems different.
When I was 15, I was in to boys—well, young men and their bourgeoning attentions. My friend—and since she’s a married, mother of three, I will not name her—and I strolled the Atlantic City boardwalk from one end to the other in attempts to capture their attention and hold it for as long as our fleeting moments of interest could allow.
My mother—I think—thought we were exercising. Seasons before she had accused my sister and me of being ‘boy crazy.’
I wasn’t yet.
By the time I could have been positively diagnosed as boy crazy, my mother was ready to move to Germany—alone.
Today, I parent a 15 year old with no road map, no directions, with nothing but common sense, love, and my memories of wanting to be mothered at 15 to guide me.