Can We Let Eleven-Year-Olds Be Eleven?
I don't know who told preteen girls that life is a race to become a moody, iced-coffee-drinking, emotionally unavailable sixteen-year-old, but I would like a word. Because what's happening lately feels less like "growing up" and more like they collectively agreed, without consulting a single parent, to hit the fast-forward button on childhood. One minute they're arguing over who gets the last fruit snack. The next, they're sighing dramatically and saying things like, "You just wouldn't understand." Ma'am. You still need me to open your juice. Somewhere between slime kits and Sephora hauls, we lost the plot entirely, and nobody sent out a memo.
It starts subtly, too, which is almost the worst part. They trade in cartoons for "get ready with me" videos. They suddenly have "outfits," not clothes, a distinction I did not know existed until recently and am apparently expected to just accept. And don't even get me started on the skincare routines. Why does an eleven-year-old have a seven-step nighttime routine? At that age, my entire skincare routine was splash water on face, call it a day, maybe use a washcloth if I was feeling especially ambitious that evening. Now they're out here exfoliating like they've personally survived three divorces and a midlife crisis.
Then there's the attitude upgrade. Oh, the attitude. It's not even full teenage attitude yet, more like a trial version, a free sample of eye rolls and dramatic sighs handed out before they've technically earned the full subscription. You'll say something completely reasonable, like "hey, can you clean your room," and suddenly you're standing in the middle of a full-blown scene from a drama series. Deep sigh. Hair flip. "I guess I'll just do everything around here." Everything? You forgot your own backpack three times this week, but sure, tell me more about the crushing weight of your responsibilities.
There's also this fascinating, unshakeable belief that they are, in fact, fully grown. They want independence, but also snacks prepared for them, rides everywhere, and reminders for literally everything under the sun. They'll say things like "I don't need help, I can do it myself," immediately followed by "wait, where are my shoes," "did you wash my hoodie," and "what time do I have to be there again." So, independent queen, but with a full-time personal assistant on call. Got it. Noted. Filed away with the rest of the contradictions I've learned not to point out directly.
And just when you think you've seen it all, my eleven-year-old sat me down, actually sat me down, like I'm an employee under review, and proceeded to give me a full-blown PowerPoint presentation on why she should be allowed to go to an out-of-state concert. I'm talking a title slide. An agenda. A budget breakdown. A closing argument complete with pictures to sell the product. Ma'am. You are eleven. You have barely even had a lifetime yet, and somehow you've got more polished slide transitions than half the presentations I've sat through at work. The confidence, though, was unmatched. She clicked through those slides like she was pitching investors on Shark Tank. At one point she said, "the budget is reasonable for us." Us? Oh, so we're business partners now? Meanwhile I'm just sitting there wondering exactly when she learned negotiation tactics, and why I suddenly feel like I need legal representation before I'm allowed to respond.
And let's not forget the emotional roller coaster, because whew. We've entered a phase where everything is either the best thing that has ever happened to her or a complete personal attack, with absolutely nothing in between. You cut their sandwich wrong? Betrayal. You bought the wrong brand of snacks? You clearly don't love them. You asked a simple, harmless question? Interrogation. I blink wrong and suddenly I've "ruined the vibe," whatever the vibe was to begin with.
Meanwhile I'm just over here trying to keep up, genuinely unsure some days what I'm even supposed to be treating her as. Do I treat you like a little kid? A teenager? An eleven-year-old CEO with strong opinions and a Google Slides account? Because right now it feels like I'm raising a middle manager with a lip gloss addiction, one who also schedules presentations for parental approval and expects a follow-up meeting.
Here's the thing, though, underneath all the humor of it. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being a preteen. You don't have to rush into being older. You don't need to skip chapters just because the next one looks more interesting from the outside. There's plenty of time coming for mood swings, existential crises, and thinking your parents are the single most embarrassing people on the planet. Trust me, those years are coming whether we like it or not, right on schedule, no PowerPoint required.
But right now, you still get to be a kid. You still get to be goofy, messy, loud, and carefree, without a budget breakdown attached to any of it. And honestly, I'd like to keep that version of you around just a little longer, even while I'm quietly impressed, and slightly terrified, by whoever it is you're turning into.
Signed, Hot Mess Mom, currently being professionally negotiated with by an eleven-year-old who still can't find her shoes but somehow built a full presentation deck.