The following is a contributed post from Karen Johnson, author of What Do I Want to Be When They Grow Up? (And Other Thoughts from a 40-Something Mom).
It was back in May, before school got out, and at 4:15 p.m., my youngest child barreled into the house, threw his backpack down in a fiery rage, and declared that day to be the “worst day ever.”
It wasn’t the “worst day ever.” But to him, at that moment, it was.
Later, once his emotions had simmered to a low boil and he was able (and willing) to articulate what happened, I learned that someone had said something about him that wasn’t true. “Everyone” laughed (“everyone” being like four people). The “thing” that was said was about a girl. And the mortification was unbearable.
Oh, I thought to myself. This is 13.
13 is equal parts the best and worst age, I declare, as someone who lived it, and as someone who already raised two kids through it and is currently living with yet another 13-year-old at this very moment.
The best age. And the very, very worst.
In 1993, I was 13 and experienced my first real-life bully. Her name was Tina Sherman. She was new to town and eager to prove herself. And for some reason (I know the reason) I was an easy target to do just that.
I was what the kids back then called a “goody-goody.” A “Teacher’s pet.” I followed the rules. I did my homework. I paid attention. I raised my hand. I knew the answers. I was the responsible kid always chosen to run a note down to the office, for the teacher knew I’d take my mission seriously and immediately return. Mine was the name all the teachers wrote down for the substitute as a trustworthy student they could ask a question to, confident I’d be honest in my response.
And I was. Trustworthy, honest, and, as Tina Sherman called me, a “Molly Doll.”
Now that I am 46, a former teacher, and a mom of 17+ years, I know what was going on with her. She was probably a little jealous of how much teachers liked me—because they never liked her. And without a stable homelife, or an adult she could turn to for guidance, she probably didn’t know how to turn it around. So she chose to do the opposite. She made my life a living hell.
Tina Sherman made it widely known that she was going to “kick my ass” after school (we walked home the same route—through paths and fields unsupervised by adults).
I had no idea what to do. A tiny little thing, all 80 lbs of me had never taken a punch of any kind. How did one even defend themself? I was lost.
And I was 13—too old to ask Mommy and Daddy for help, too young to handle it on my own.
I walked home a different route for a couple days, terrified, alone, but in the end, unscathed. And, bullies tend to do, she got bored of me and moved on.
I remained the teacher’s pet (mostly) for the rest of my school days.
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13: The Age of Transformation
13 is the age kids morph into entirely new people—at least, it has been for all three of my children. New clothing styles, new friendship circles, new interests, new hairdos, new sense of self.
Both of my boys grew about five inches at age 13. At 12, I was taller than my oldest. By 14, he towered over me, was able to retrieve things for me off of high shelves in my kitchen, and lovingly tapped the top of my head for fun to mock my newfound “shortness.” My youngest, the current 13-year-old, has just surpassed me in height (a fact he shares with glee to anyone and everyone who will listen). And my daughter (my middle child) experienced drastic physical changes at this age as well.
It’s like one day they left childhood, walked through a portal, and came out little almost adults. Seemingly overnight.
13 is more than first periods and weird body hair and suddenly smelling like you need a shower twice a day.
It’s first boyfriends / girlfriends, first “dates” to the movies or going to the fair and enduring relentless teasing from your friends.
It’s sleepovers and giggles, eating too much sugar and staying up too late.
It’s trying stuff you’re curious about, or trying stuff you’re terrified of but feel like if you don’t try, you’ll be mercilessly mocked.
13 means you’re no longer a child, but you’re not yet an adult, and you’re standing on the precipice of having to figure out who you want to be while still clinging to the comfort of the little kid you’ve always been.
13-year-olds sit in classrooms with some kids who still “play” at home with light sabers and American Girl dolls and some kids who have already had sex and tried vaping. And mostly, the typical 13-year-old is somewhere in between, feeling like they have one foot still in their innocent youth and another dipped into the excitement of teenage-dom where they’ll have to learn how to make out and hope they do it well enough that no one spreads rumors that they’re a bad kisser.
13: The Age of Finding One’s Voice
At 13, I distinctly remember finding my angry girl power voice for the first time. A few of us theater kids waged a battle against our first real taste of misogyny. Our theater teacher Mr. Lion had asked the boys to carry a couch to the stage to be part of the set, and wouldn’t let the girls help.
We staged what we believed was a rightful protest, because girls can carry a couch (truth), but Mr. Lion, who was probably born in 1921, wasn’t having it.
I don’t remember who won or lost the battle of the couch, but I clearly remember finding a fire within me that day, at 13, and also at navigating my war with Tina Sherman. I was 13 and, despite being a “goody goody”, I was also well on my way to learning how to stand tall in the face of mean girls and crotchety old men.
And, although both of my boys have always felt comfortable using their voices and speaking up, my daughter, as a child, was very, very shy. But guess what happened? By 13, she was loud, brave, and unstoppable. She, too, found her voice as she stepped through the 13-year-old transformation portal.
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Parenting the Tumultuous Age of 13
I’ve watched two of my children pass over the bridge and get to the other side of 13 and the last one is stuck flat in the middle right now.
Every day his voice gets a little deeper, he grows another inch, he pushes another boundary, and he moves closer and closer to a grownup version of the little boy who used to steal cookies and eat them behind the couch at three years old.
He talks to girls on the phone and asks for expensive hair products and cologne now.
He refuses to acknowledge my presence in public, as the greatest shame a 13-year-old boy can endure is admitting that yes, the woman next to him is, in fact, his mother. (“But can I have like $20 please?” he’ll still ask from the most embarrassing human on the planet before banishing her to the other end of the parking lot.)
I remember 13. And I have now parented 13.
It’s newness and excitement and getting that first taste of freedom. But with that freedom comes the pressure to navigate the world on your own, often without a safety net, nervous your mom is going to show up, but sometimes also praying your mom shows up.
So as I watch my last 13-year-old barrel through the door, vehemently announcing that the world is ending, I try to remember that of course, it isn’t ending. But to a 13-year-old, it might be, just for a moment.
I wait for the storm to pass, stay nearby but not too close, and then quietly say, “Do you want a snack?”
And 100% of the time, that helps. The world doesn’t end, and we all live to see another day in this tumultuous life of being 13.
Karen Johnson’s book What Do I Want to Be When They Grow Up? (And Other Thoughts from a 40-Something Mom) is for the moms thinking about that next chapter after their kids have flown the nest—what will they do? Who will they be? Also sprinkled in, the reader will find lots of humor, commentary on the joys of perimenopause, and relatable stories of being the default parent.
Parenting teens and tweens is a tough job, but you’re not alone. These posts might help:
10 Inspirational Books for Teens That Will Make Them Think Deeper
10 Commons Battles that Will Destroy the Relationship with Your Teen
Why Popularity Is So Important in Middle School and How to Navigate It
Group Texts Are the Worst for Parents of Middle Schoolers
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