Somewhere between washing the dishes and hearing my mom play Candy Crush too loudly on her iPad, it happens: I morph into the angsty teen I swore I’d never be again. My widowed mom comes to stay with us—me, a middle-aged mom, and my two teens—for two weeks over every holiday and birthday. The moment she walks through the door, my emotional growth hits reverse. Suddenly, I’m stomping around, snapping at questions, and muttering, “Why is she like this?”
Don’t get me wrong—I love her. She’s my mom. But something about her presence unlocks a part of me I thought I’d left behind in high school. Every little thing gets under my skin. The way she chews too loudly. The way she insists on cleaning my mostly clean car. And the questions. Oh, the endless questions.
Every morning, I carve out a small slice of peace for myself: cold brew in hand, driving quietly past the water. It’s my solitude, my mental reset, my moment to breathe. But when she’s here, my ritual turns into an interrogation.
“Are there always this many people walking dogs in the park?”
“When will the bridge be done?”
“Is that house for sale?”
I timed it once out of sheer disbelief. Not a single minute passed without a question. By the end of the drive, my cherished peace felt like a pop quiz I wasn’t prepared for.
And then there’s Candy Crush. I can’t explain why the sound of cascading candies and triumphant dings fills me with such irrational rage, but it does. Somewhere deep inside, I’m muttering, Can she just wear headphones? Can she just… not?
As much as I’d love to blame her, deep down I know the truth: It’s not her—it’s me. I want to be the grown-up. I want to savor this time with her and think happy, evolved thoughts. Instead, I’m unhinged, snapping at minor infractions and fantasizing about a world where Candy Crush was never invented and everyone spoke only when absolutely necessary.
Meanwhile, my teens watch me, the actual teenagers in the house, with a mix of horror and amusement. My daughter even said once, “Mom, you’re being kind of dramatic.” She wasn’t wrong. Here I am, living a full-blown after-school special while muttering things like, “Just let me live, Mom!”—words that make me want to crawl under the table in shame.
I know I should be setting an example for my teens—showing them how to treat elders, especially me when I’m older. Instead, I’m giving them a masterclass in what not to do.
And yet, despite my theatrics, there’s my mom, calm as ever, loving me even when I’m at my worst. She’s the example, not me. Her patience, her forgiveness, her unwavering presence—they’re a quiet reminder of how far I still have to go.
So, I’ll keep washing the dishes while she plays Candy Crush too loudly. I’ll take her on my morning drives, even if the water never looks quite as peaceful with a side of “Is that house for sale?” And maybe—just maybe—I’ll remind myself that not every teen has to be angsty. Not even me.
