I have not wanted to write this blog post, because it’s beyond difficult to write about parenting teenagers.

When children are young, the stories are funny and easy to tell. No one really blames a toddler for throwing a tantrum, and reading about others dealing with their screaming toddlers at best gives us advice on how to cope with our own and at worst makes us feel not quite so alone. But around the time kids turn thirteen, our children’s behavior becomes less about our parenting and more about their choices. Thus, the story of a teenager melting down because of anxiety or stress feels like their story to tell, not their parents’. Even if what we’re writing about is the way our lives are affected by what they do, it feels more invasive or revealing than it was when they were in diapers. The problem is that when we stop telling our stories, we don’t get the “That happened to you, too? I thought I was the only one!” responses that we get when we are vulnerable enough to tell our stories as teens, young adults, and then parents of young children. And then we start to feel very, very, very alone.

I’ve felt very isolated in my parenting journey since my babies became teens. And that sucks, because I know a lot of us are out there, struggling, and we have no one to talk to about it. I wish I could help. I wish I could tell all the stories of all the teens I know so that all the parents out there would realize that none of us get out of this phase unscathed. Teenagers know how to do or say things that make labor contractions feel like stubbing a toe.

Some people call it “soiling the nest.” Our teenagers know, specifically around their senior year of high school, that they will need to break away, so they (sometimes completely unconsciously) behave or speak in such a way that makes parents glad they’re going.

So it shouldn’t have been a surprise to me when my younger child told me off in the middle of the Vatican. But it was.

Let me preface this story by saying that she wasn’t wrong. I have treasured friends who have vulnerably offered that, while they might not have blurted it out the way she did, they might have felt the same way in her position. Their stories, more than anything else, have given me the lens I needed to process this experience so I could write about it in a way that was not about me and my feelings, and not about her and her feelings, but in a way that makes it about parenting teenagers. Here’s hoping that if a parent of a teen reads this, he or she will be able to say, “That happened to you, too? I thought it was only me!” and not feel so alone.

So, we had arrived in Rome. It was July. It was the height of summer, and 107 degrees. Our travel agent, knowing that this was the part of the tour that was supposed to have been my older daughter’s senior trip, that the girls had attended Catholic school from pre-K3 through high school, and that we were going to Italy specifically to see the Vatican, booked us a tour with a private guide.

My husband and I were psyched. That morning we woke up, had a good breakfast, packed some snacks in case anyone got hangry, and grabbed an Uber to the Vatican. Seamless. We easily found our guide. He was delightful and knowledgable and asked us a few questions to make sure we were going to get to see what we wanted to see.

The first thing the kids noticed about the Vatican Museum was what they had noticed about every other place in Europe: no air conditioning. “The Sistine Chapel is air-conditioned!” our guide told us.

“So it is possible,” my youngest said under her breath. “Then why isn’t it air conditioned in here?”

I hung back with her as my husband walked ahead with my oldest and our guide.

She continued. “No, I mean, this is just stupid. All this stuff about the past, the history, the ruins, the whatever. You have enough ruins. You don’t need to keep salvaging more. Start working on infrastructure. Seriously, this is why Europe has become a second-rate power. They literally flee their homes and jobs in the city for a month or more because this place is unlivable in this heat. Tear down some ruins, install some power plants, crank up the a/c and get to work. This is why I miss home!”

Believe it or not, that was not the part where she told me off. That was just a regular complaint.

So there we were, in one of the most amazing historical cities in the world, and my younger daughter was completely unimpressed by the history. She was also, in true teenager-in-a-Catholic-school fashion, not particularly interested in the Catholicism of it all. But then again, this was not her graduation trip. It was her sister’s.

Unfortunately, her sister, in the heat and with the crowds, was having a panic attack. Our guide and my husband led her out to a patio. My youngest and I caught up to them just in time to hear her say to our guide, in front of my husband, “Yeah, I’m really not all that into the Catholic thing any more.”

This was not a revelation to me or to my husband, but he did turn almost purple when she said it. I actually would have been more surprised if, after her first year of college, she was totally into the Catholic thing. Our spiritual lives are hard in our teens, especially when we’re in a secular environment for the first time. She has a good foundation. She will find her way. But to hear that, after having listened to her sister complain endlessly the entire trip, in the middle of the place this trip was specifically designed for us to go to celebrate her graduation? Well. It was . . .

Do you know the book The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein? A lot of people will ooh and aaah when I say that name as if it evokes some beautiful memory. They will then be taken completely aback when I say, in no uncertain terms, that I f***ing HATE that book with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. I don’t know if Shel Silverstein wrote it as a commentary on parenthood (because he can be pretty dark) but for those of you who have not read it it’s about this boy and a tree. And when he’s little the tree gives him shade to play in. Then it gives him apples to eat. And as I read this to my kids when they were young I was like, “Aww. It’s an allegory of motherhood (because the tree is written as a she). This tree loves this boy and wants to protect him and feed him and shelter him from the rain. How sweet.”

But it didn’t end there. Eventually the boy grows up and he ends up wanting her branches for something. At which point she . . . gives them to him. “Odd,” I thought. “Now she’s kind of just a trunk. She gave away the part of herself that shaded him and grew the apples and protected him from the rain. And it’s not like they’ll grow back.”

Then he wants to go away and asks if he can have her trunk so that he can build a boat and leave her. And she gives it to him. And then she is just . . . a stump. Eventually the boy comes back as an old man and the . . . stump . . . is still there and . . . he sits on it. He sits. On the stump. And it’s all, “Awww, she was such a giving tree, and in the end he comes back and she is a good old stump to sit on.”

My first reaction when I finished that book, though I did not say it out loud to my kids, was “Well that sh** can just f*** off right now. I will be no one’s stump. Not even these kids who I love more than my own life. I will not give everything that I am until all that is left of me is essentially a stool for them to sit on. That is not motherly, sacrificial love. That’s freaking abuse. And I will not be that person.”

Needless to say, I never read that book to them again, and I often in their hearing loudly critiqued it. “I will give my children shade and apples and shelter them from the storms. But I will NOT be giving them my limbs and my body until there is nothing left of me but a stump. I will not do and do and do and do and give and give and give and give of myself until there is nothing left. Oh heck no,” I would say. And my children, when they became old enough to engage in the conversation, agreed that it was not something that anyone should expect of anyone.

Yet that line from my child felt like I’d given up a limb.

So I took a deep breath, said a really long prayer, smiled, and asked her if she was feeling well enough to resume the tour. “I’ll take you a less crowded way,” our tour guide said. And he did. We walked through this gallery of sculpture, a hallway of ancient maps, and into rooms and rooms of the most amazing Renaissance art by Giotto, Brunelleschi, Donatello, Botacelli, Titian and, of course, Michelangelo and Leonardo Da Vinci. Despite the heat, their lack of historical and religious interest, and the crowds, the girls honestly tried to engage. They walked and talked. They took photos of things to show friends. They posed as a family for some photos. If I said, “Let’s have one for the Christmas card!” one more time I was going to lose my mind. But always we moved forward with this faith that soon we would be at the Sistine Chapel and there would be relief from the accursed heat.

We did eventually arrive in the Sistine Chapel, and the air conditioning was divine. We spent about 45 minutes in there. Our guide had given us an extensive lecture on all the things that I would now have to look up on the internet to remember, though I do recall that a bishop later made one of the painters in the Vatican paint loincloths on some of the figures in the chapel because they were naked, and that Michelangelo did that on purpose. I thought that was kind of funny. The girls were happy and laughing, though it was rather crowded, and eventually there was only so much time a person could spend looking at a ceiling and walls.

We exited, and the guide asked if we wanted to go to the top of St. Peter’s Cathedral. He wouldn’t be taking us there, but he’d point the way. We thanked him for his time, allowed him to go on his way, and then I turned to the girls. “So, you want to go to the top of the Cathedral?”

I guess that was the wrong thing to say, because my youngest gave me a glare. “Look. I did what you asked me to do. I went on this tour. And I looked at the art. In the heat. But the tour is over, and I want to go back to the hotel, take a shower, and sleep away the rest of this vacation.”

It was the last straw. I turned on her. “You have been sullen, disrespectful, and downright rude for the majority of this trip, and the level of ingratitude you have shown is beyond unacceptable. You will not sleep away our last day. We have a four-cathedral tour tomorrow, and you will be going.”

She stood up straight. “I will go on that tour. I will do exactly what you need me to do. But let’s make one thing clear. This is my last vacation with you. I am not interested in what you are interested in. I do not like these things. History, not for me. Religion, just no. These are the things you love. This whole vacation has been about you. I don’t enjoy any of these things. And I won’t be doing them again. Tomorrow is our last day. I’ll do whatever you have planned, and then we’re done. I tried to like this. I tried to find things that I could connect to. I have found nothing. There is nothing here for me. I wish I hadn’t come.”

I nodded, because I had no words. I mean, how do you respond when you’ve given someone a part of your dream, and they tell you it’s their nightmare? So I simply said, “Your sister had asked, before we left, if we could pick up a small Pieta sculpture for her as a souvenir. I will be going to do that now, and then we will go back to the hotel.”

I went to the very crowded, hot shop. I bought the statue. We caught a cab and went back to the hotel. When we got to our room, my husband said, “After you left she turned to me and said, ‘She has to learn to let me go. In one year, I’ll be leaving for college and she has to know that I’m not going to be with her all the time, that we’re not going to do these things together. She’ll understand that I’m doing this for both of us. I have to break away.'” He shook his head. “Do you believe that’s why she said that?”

I nodded. And all I could think in my head was, “I am not a stump. She is telling me that she will not make me her stump. She will not take and take and take until there is nothing of me left, because she knows that’s not right. So she’s putting her foot down and basically telling me it’s time for her to live her own life and for me to live mine. She won’t use my branches or my trunk to make a boat and sail away, but she’s going to sail away and that’s the right and correct thing to do. I just wish she’d done it more gently. But we’re both at our limits right now. It is what it is.”

That night, at dinner, my child wept. She wouldn’t tell us why. I don’t think she could. I also don’t think she could have stopped herself. She was in that teenage brain-space where her amygdala had overcome her prefrontal cortex and she just couldn’t regulate. She had been asked to do too much, for too long. If Italians only made country music, I’d suggest they record something like “Tears in My Gnocchi,” inspired by my penultimate Roman meal.

It’s hard to enjoy even the best of a Nonna’s food when sitting across from an inconsolable child, but I persevered. I mean, this was only a little bit of the food we were served. Nothing short of blood would have driven me from these dishes.

After awhile it seemed cruel to keep her in the restaurant, so while my husband paid and my older daughter kept him company, I walked her back to the hotel, just the two of us. She let me put my arm around her, and she put her arm around my waist. “It’s okay, you know,” I said. “I understand. And I love you.”

“You shouldn’t forgive me until I apologize,” she responded.

“This is where my faith comes in, my love. While I appreciate your apology, you need to know that the apology is for you. I know you’re sorry. And because you’re sorry, you’re forgiven. But what are you sorry for?”

“I was awful to you.”

“You were asserting yourself. That’s actually okay. Maybe you could have said it in a kinder way, but . . . you are telling me that I gifted you an experience that, to you, was not a gift at all. And that you don’t want to have to do this again. That’s okay. It’s okay to set that boundary.”

“I just don’t feel comfortable being here. It’s been so long since I’ve been in my own bed. I never feel clean when I travel, and it’s okay if it’s a weekend, or even a week, but it’s been weeks. It’s just too much.”

I nodded. “Could this be pandemic-related? Because you had to be home so much?”

“I don’t think so. To be honest, I’ve never felt comfortable traveling. Really. I just couldn’t put it into words before. Sleeping in a bed someone else slept in, showering in a shower where someone else put their bare feet,” she shivered. “It’s just gross!”

“Honey, these are well-maintained hotels. I mean, a lot of kids your age travel by sleeping in youth hostels . . .”

“I know! We passed a lot of them in Barcelona. I’d rather never see anything outside our town than sleep in one of those places. If I want to travel, I’ll save money for 20 years to get decent accommodations rather than sleep there.”

“Okay,” I said. “To be fair, I never slept in those either. So, you want creature comforts. That’s okay. We live in a really nice house, with good beds and clean showers . . . “

“And I don’t mind leaving it now and again for short periods of time. I’m just at the end of my rope here. I’m struggling to get through every day.”

I sighed. “I think what I’m feeling now is sad for you. There’s so much in the world to see, so many places to go.”

“I can look it up on my computer.”

“But the sensory immersion. The sounds that go along with the sights and the smells. . . . “

“All cities smell like garbage. You’ll just be walking in a city–I don’t care which city: Edinburgh, Savannah, New York, Barcelona, Rome–and you’ll think eh, this is nice. Then BAM! A nose full of rot-smell. It’s disgusting. I’ll look at pictures.”

What could I say? She’s who she is. I’m who I am. But I had one more salvo: “What about the food?” I asked.

“Not gonna lie, that was pretty amazing. But not worth the time on the plane. I’ll figure out how to make my own.”

I always wanted one of my kids to be a cook.

The next day we took our four-cathedral tour. True to her word, my youngest was an absolute trooper. Again it was blazingly hot, but she did not complain. She went everywhere we wanted to go. She even offered to wait while I climbed the Holy Stairs–the stairs on which it is said Jesus walked before his crucifixion. I declined, as climbing the stairs on my knees felt a little too daunting.

The tour and our guide were amazing, and the kids were especially surprised and delighted by this outwardly nondescript church that, inside led to four layers of churches that had been built one on top of the other. The lowest level had running water, and was cooler than the air conditioned Sistine Chapel. We looked around that place for quite awhile, and happened to overhear a church group tour led by a priest. “This was a temple to a pagan god. But we’re not talking about that.” Our guide had already told us all about it. It was a god of warriors, and the back of the temple had a space, kind of like a locker room, for gladiators to get ready.

“Pretty neat, huh?” I said as we walked through.

My youngest shrugged. “It’s certainly damp.”

I laughed. “Okay, okay. Last vacation with us. I get it. But here’s my question: If you’re never traveling with us again, does that mean you’re not going to the Final Fantasy XIV convention in Vegas with us in a couple of weeks?”

Reader, she accompanied us. But that is a story for another time.