'Wonder Years' for Teens, 'Worry Years' for Parents

At the beginning of the new year 10 years ago, I had three little children with the fourth expected any minute. It didn't seem possible that life could be any more hectic or that the children's demand on my time could be greater.
But all the time I would hear, "Wait until they are teenagers." It was always said by parents of teenagers in a tone of voice so ominous that it suggested living through the teenage years would be like walking through a mine field, with minimal hopes of survival.
I didn't have to wait long to have teenagers. Before I had a chance to really get the hang of mothering pre-schoolers, I had high schoolers. These high-schoolers are wonderful people just as they were wonderful grade-school kids, toddlers and babies. They aren't the problem, their age is.
Teenagers want to do things that are dangerous, that don't seem sensible (at least to parents), and that parents just aren't ready for them to do.
What worries most parents is that they remember doing the same things, and they know there is something to worry about.
The sole aim of the parents of teenagers is to usher their children through these years in one piece. Whenever, I'm out for the evening, a sudden pang of terror grips me: "Did I ask my teenagers all the right questions about their evening plans? Did I make all the guidelines and curfews clear so later they can't say, 'Oh, I didn't know I wasn't supposed to go there.' "
I look around the room, which is often filled with people of my vintage and tell myself to
calm down, "You are surrounded by a houseful of people who survived the teenage years," I tell myself, "The percentages are in your favor." That helps me but still....
My suggestion for weekend activities for the high school age crowd is to invite a few friends over and I'll teach them to play Bridge. I'm always looking for partners.
The teens don't think much of this plan - it's not nearly risky enough. It is much more exciting to be driving around with no definite destination, although that's not what they told Mom and
Dad, who think they are at a party. The kids were at the party, but they left because it was boring and the parents were home, which is exactly the reason Mom and Dad wanted their teenagers there.
Adding to the teen's adventure for the evening is the driver, who finally passed his driver's test the previous week on the third try. On his first try he took out a couple of pedestrians. On his second try he made a left turn on red, even though he knew the law allows
only a right turn on red. He gets his right and left mixed up.
What it all comes down to is worry. Lots of it. Teen-age years are the worry years. Most of the worrying is done late at night while parents are also waiting for the teenagers to come home and
wondering if they will return unscathed physically, emotionally, and legally.
If they are late, the worrying automatically kicks into overdrive. If I'm in bed, I get up and stare out the window. My heart inflates as every car travels up the street and deflates when it continues by the house. If too much time passes, I go back downstairs to sit in
the dark, staring alternately at the clock and out the window.
Between the times that I'm thinking about the worst scenario for why they are late, I plan what I'm going to do to them when they do arrive home. Should I be hysterical? Calm? Should I pour on the guilt? I can never make up my mind, so I go back to praying the rosary for a safe return.
Finally, all's well. The evening's errant ones appear fortified with excuses but I'm too overjoyed to listen. Now I can go to bed.
Inevitably, before my head sinks all the way into the pillow, my mother's words to me during one of my teenage summers comes flashing into the dark. "But I do worry," she said, even though I told her not to. She also told me, "Come home earlier so I can get some sleep." I hear your Mom! Boy do I ever hear you!
January 18, 1989