Raising a teenager

Raising teenagers is hard. I mean, really hard. They look like adults, and sometimes they sound like them. 

They are not adults. 

When I ask the girl a question I'm still likely to hear "I don't know" as an answer. But it will come from above my head because she's taller than I am. 

When she's sick she still wants me to rub her back and hold her in my arms - but sometimes her breasts get in the way. 

She calls me Momma and holds my hand in the grocery store. I glare at the people who give us funny looks because I don't want her to get too self-conscious to continue. 

Sometimes I look at her and wonder who the hell this almost-woman is, and where did my little girl go. Then she gives me one of her now rare smiles, and her dimples appear for a moment, and I see the little girl briefly. 

There are times my heart breaks because she's just so beautiful, and times when all I can see in her are my own flaws. 

I want her to travel, to see the world, to study whatever makes her happiest. I want her to fall in love, build a life, feel fulfilled. 

I wish I could protect her from heartbreak, from injury, from making stupid mistakes. 

Raising a teenager is hard. I can't imagine not doing it.