Someone once said, you are only as happy as your least happy child. Insert adjective…you are as delighted, as depressed, as excited, as sad, as ________ as you least/most ________child. And as it turns out, only as REBELLIOUS. All true, ALL true.

I find myself firmly planted in the midst of something I never lived in denial about…the deeply rebellious and accountability-punting nature of my daughter. And it is making me only as rebellious and accountability-punting as, well…her. And I knew it, from en utero. Proving to be the ultimate test of two very distinctive but not-so-different wills. Whether it be chola lipliner or tops that pop the burgeoning boobs, it’s a real mind-F, that is for certain.

I feel vulnerable over things I cannot control. And in the midst of this challenge, I know, I know, my best bet is to use reverse psychology and shut my pie-hole over anything that doesn’t matter {be cool, Krissy}. I’ve been this chick and now, an even further new found respect for my own mother persists. How in the H-E-double-hockey-sticks did she not lose her ever-loving mind.

Tonight, I picked her up from the football game. We battled over what she wore, as per usual. On the way home, she told me excitedly about her time and the boys and the friends and I am so grateful she shares with me. I like her so much. She sang Ariana Grande at full volume, she thinks she’s in her register. I’ll save you the suspense…she is not. I’m somewhere between “shut the fuck up” and “sing your heart out, baby girl” and that, in a nutshell, is mothering teenage daughters. Somewhere in the in-between. You remember it, you want it for them, you fear it for them, you love it and hate it. All at the same time. Overall, it was a good night so I’ll shut the fuck up.