Dad, can I talk with you for a few minutes?

Adventures with 13-year-old humans

“Dad, can I talk with you for a few minutes?”

“Of course, you can,” I replied through the front-facing camera of my iPhone. Every night, we gather at nine, either in person or via Facetime, for our nighttime ritual. We pray and bless one another. We talk about our day. I tell dumb jokes and make wisecracks. With their quick wit, the kids reply and usually leave me laughing and smiling while Michelle groans and rolls her eyes. Other times, things get more serious.

“Can I talk with you for a few minutes?”

This time, she dropped her chin and left eye contact as she asked. Being a 13-year-old human is no joke. Middle school is hard. You are a raging ball of hormones. Your body is going through all kinds of changes. You start to feel things you’ve never felt before. All your friends, foes, and frenemies are going through similar changes and struggles without an ounce of emotional maturity between you. It all collides to form a perfect storm of confusion, hilarity, stress, discovery, anxiety, and more. “Rollercoaster” is an utterly insufficient metaphor to describe it. It’s more like a rollercoaster, bumper cars, mousetrap, freefall, bounce house, mirror maze, tunnel of love, and crooked carnival games made a human then jacked it up on cotton candy, hotdogs, Mountain Dew, candy corn, and cortisol. Again, being a 13-year-old human is no joke. 

I never know entirely what to expect when she asks,

“Can I talk with you for a few minutes?”

It usually means talking for LOTS of minutes. Usually, it means she’s had a rough day or is struggling with something/someone. Sometimes, it means she is hurt, angry, sad, anxious, confused, or any combination of these things.

I don’t like it when she struggles. I don’t like it when bad things happen to her, or her relationships are hurtful. I don’t like it when her mistakes (and their consequences) make things harder than they need to be. I don’t like that she faces so much heaviness with such frequency. I hate it when she hurts. I hate that she battles my old familiar foes of anxiety and depression. And I love her. I love her for who she is and who she is becoming.

I love inviting her to raise her chin and look into my eyes while I remind her she is loved and not alone. I love that she trusts me enough to tell me when she’s hurting and why. I love it when she tells me she feels seen and heard after our conversations. I love that sometimes she sneaks downstairs to hug me and let me know she’s doing better when she hears me come in from work (even though that also means she’s up too late on a school night!)

I love being her dad. It’s a big job and a crazy ride, but I entered it willingly. I want to be here for it all.