I Hate My Teenager

I may be the first parenting blogger to type the phrase:

I hate my teenage son.

I’ll spare you the details of my recent lecture that has led me here. I’ll just say that the shouting match ended with me saying, “You don’t need us, huh? Fine, I’m done!”, as my 17-year-old smirked in apathy – from the table where he eats our food, wearing the clothes we provide, getting himself ready for the wrestling practice we support (and fund), and after having put gas in the car we bought for him – while claiming he would be just fine if we’d just stop sweating him.

Yes, I hate my son.

I hate that he wakes up at noon on Saturdays.

I hate that his hours at a part-time job have mysterious been cut for the past two weeks without a decent answer as to why.

I hate there are few interactions with his younger siblings that are even cordial, let alone big brotherly.

I hate that my son cannot be relied upon to help out – ever, in any capacity – around the house.

I hate that he is smart enough to pull A’s in some classes, but lazy enough to get D’s in others.

I hate that, with only one year left of high school, he could care less about planning for his future, talking about post-high school plans, discussing how to pay for college, or at our well-intentioned prodding that he consistently shuns.

I hate that I am powerless to make him care. The only recourse I have for such sh*tty behavior doesn’t matter to him long term or penalizes us instead – like taking his phone, relegating him to his bedroom, or forcing him to miss the wrestling practices that provide the majority of his social time with friends.

I hate that the glimpses of the mature, well-mannered young man that we’ve raised are quickly snuffed out by a return to an all-too-present “f*ck it” attitude we have now come to expect as the new normal.

I hate that my mood, ability to be playful with my other kids, and the eagerness I have for arriving home from work have waned as my relationship with my teenager has sank further down this sewer.

I hate that I do not look forward to my other kids reaching this same age for fear they will turn into the same (temporary) ungrateful jerks.

I hate that I hesitate to start conversation for fear of one word answers or descension into another verbal war with him.

I hate that others tell me what a great kid my 17-year-old is. How come I don’t see it anymore?

I hate that our fights are impacting my relationship with my wife and friends.

I hate that I’m exhausted.

I hate that I have resolved myself to feeling like a parenting failure on most nights.

I hate that I feel unsure that I am releasing a productive young man into the world come next summer.

I hate it.

I hate this.

I hate teenage parenting.

I hate by teenage son.

I hate that I love him this much.