Just wait until they’re teenagers
the warning has always been clear.

But elbow-deep in diapers,
toddler tantrum throwdowns,
and six months of sleep deprivation—
I doubted the seriousness of that claim.

Until now.

Dread creeps at the doorway.
Each day, a quiet ticking—
closer and closer
to the teenage years.

I’m not sure the self-control has improved,
but the bodies are bigger,
the voices louder,
the words sharper.

My brilliant child,
a know-it-all prodigy.
Hangry and hearing
only when it suits him.

He reflects back
the parts of me
I’d rather not pass down.

He yells at his brother.
I yell at him to stop yelling.

He argues.
I tell him to stop arguing.
He says he’s not arguing.
I tell him he is.

He tries to control
what isn’t his to control.

And I wonder—

whose child is this anyway?

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

We live on repeat.
Groundhog Day conversations,
same lesson,
different tone.

They say insanity
is doing the same thing over and over
and expecting different results.

What do you call
trying everything—
and getting the same result anyway?

Enough to drive
any parent
insane.

The goal is simple:
a functioning,
capable,
kind human being.

But the easy path
will not get you there.

It takes grit,
and struggle,
and commitment,
and hard work.

And if I’m honest—

how often have I chosen the easier way?

How often have I resisted
the very growth
I’m asking of him?

Maybe this is what they meant.

Not the attitude.
Not the arguments.

But the mirror.

And the slow, steady work
of letting God
grow me up too.