Failing the Tween
Failing the Tween
Torture by way of music and memories
This post was originally published
by our dear Scribente co-founder,One rainy, dreary Sunday morning in April here in Minnesota, my son almost convinced me that I’m the worst parent ever.
Because months ago—without consulting him—I purchased tickets for all of us to attend his younger sister’s favorite musical group, The Okee Dokee Brothers.
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And while the theoretical idea of a morning spent in a darkened auditorium across town with a few hundred wiggly preschoolers and early elementary students sounded at one point like something he would at least be able to tolerate, it was now the single most egregious act anyone had ever inflicted upon him.
But Can You Canoe?
When we arrived at the concert that day, my delightful first born dragged his feet through the parking lot, kicking at curbs and puddles and muttering just loud enough for someone to hear. He grabbed eye contact, then shot my husband and me the nastiest side-eyes he could muster. Convinced that everyone in the lobby of the concert was staring at him, he commented relentlessly on his significantly advanced age compared to absolutely everyone else around him.
“I’m probably even older than some of the parents.”
So in those few exciting moments before the house lights fell, while eager concert-goers were sneaking their last bites of Happy Baby spinach sweet potato puffs or wrestling to remove their rain boots in order to run up and down the aisles unencumbered, I had a heart-to-heart with the wise old twelve-year-old sage now seated beside me.
“Listen,” I reasoned, in that way every mom of a pre-teen perpetually practices but never masters, “You don’t have to want to be here in order for this to be a good time. Think of this more as a nostalgic experience. You once loved this band as much as your sister does now. For her, it’s a flash with greatness. For you, it can be a trip down Memory Lane.”
But whose Memory Lane were we on exactly?
Not his. At least not entirely.
Because as soon as the “Have a little perspective” speech left my mouth and the twelve-year-old’s eyes rolled back to the front of his head, I realized my husband and I were not at this concert for our kids. We were here because of our kids. It was our own parenting Memory Lane we were now walking on.
Running through.
Stumbling over.
Tripping down haphazardly without any regard whatsoever for our mental health.
Or maybe we were just canoeing.
Back to Minnesota
When my tween was still a cute little toddler (about five seconds ago), we discovered the Okee Dokee Brothers, a kids’ singing duo from Minnesota, who were fresh off their Grammy win at the time. That album was the first in their adventure series, with songs inspired by a canoe trip down the Mississippi River. These not-actually-related brothers are a lot like the Muppets: marketed to kids, but written so that adults are the real superfans.
Jim Henson was no dummy, and neither are Joe and Justin.
That little toddler and I had almost three years on our own before his little sister joined our crew. Because being a stay-at-home anything was never something either of us could manage, we spent our days out and about, all over Baltimore. From the B&O Train Museum to Music Together classes to the Science Center or just our local mall, we clocked hundreds of hours in the car together.
And The Okee Dokee Brothers’ Can You Canoe album was our constant soundtrack. With each song that the duo played on that rainy morning this April, I saw the angst-filled tween human next to me with increasing nostalgia of my own, no longer a toddler in Baltimore, but a borderline-man-child, back home in Minnesota.
The Good Old Times
He has gone from cuddling with me in public and mimicking everything his dad does to telling us with extreme lament that we have no rizz, choosing to wear Crocs with socks in the middle of a January winter, and doing anything to avoid the social humiliation of a winter coat.
In short, he’s in the very first stages of becoming his own unique, wonderful distinct person.
As the concert crept past the 45-minute mark and the rest of the audience was hitting their limit, the cool kid next to me forgot for a moment about his overwhelming rizz. He looked at me with the quiet resignation of a young man humoring his old mom, and in that moment, I realized that he was still mine, just in a new, wonderful, maybe even improved way. He wasn’t with me that day because I had strapped him into a car seat. He was there because—despite all the performative complaining—he really did want to be there.
While mourning the fact that my two-year-old was no longer here, I almost missed the fact that my twelve-year-old would not be here forever. Soon, he’d be a teenager and a graduate and a young man living somewhere else. Someday, he may even be dragging a tween of his own to an Okee Dokee Brothers concert.
Someday, I will long for this tween: for the eye-rolling and the dramatics and reluctant tolerance of this not-quite-adult who is still very much a part of my daily life, even when we both feel him slipping away.
Yessir, Yessir, those days were fine
Yessir, Yessir, but these are the good old times
Aw, this is so poignant and heartwarming! I have a seven-year-old and a four-year-old, and I’m really trying to enjoy these years as much as I can. They are so much fun right now, and I just want to hit that pause button.
LOVE!