They say your kid turns into an alien around this age, and lately you’re starting to suspect they might be right.

But do you remember?

Remember how you moved back to Ohio after 5th grade and ambled into that tweenaged sh*t show as a new girl? 

You had all that drama going on at home, but you also met your best friend that week—remember?

And remember how you put one of those string friendship bracelet wrap things in the front of your hair? And how those things don’t come out unless you cut them—so that’s what you did—and then dealt with that wack piece of hair for all of 6th grade? Sticking straight up like a lobsided horn, even on picture day.

There was that boy who laughed at how you wore your hat on ‘Hat Day’ and you got that first pang of noticing someone was cute. 

That social studies project everyone did in 7th grade where you had to research Bob Dole, Bill Clinton and Ross Perot on the issues.

Remember Ross Perot?

Remember how the Columbus Dispatch published a concise list of their presidential platforms on the front page, which pissed the teacher off and she was like “no, you can’t use the article from the Columbus Dispatch.” 

Imagine that old thing being the only tempting shortcut to answering your homework.

Cute.

Remember the time the guidance counselor pulled you out of class to ask you about the flowers you drew all over your hand with a gel pen? Which you did because you were creative, and bored, and loved that pen. 

You thought it was pretty, but she seemed to be scratching at something deeper that didn’t exist—remember that?

The adults were so weird then…

Remember D.A.R.E.?

Do you think that’s what was wrong with them? The adults, I mean.

Were they watching too much scary news and looking too hard at us while we were just trying to screw up and manage our acne and brand new menstrual cycles?

Remember when you smoked a cigarette for the first time after the 7th Grade Cantina, and held it together the whole way home in the carpool with your friends and then threw up as soon as mom opened the door? And she thought you had been drinking?

Oh, and when you burned your arm with a lighter on purpose because your friends told you it would heal into a smiley face-shaped scar?

*Makes a note to tell mom yes, it’s still there, and no, you didn’t regret it for the rest of your life.*

This is what you were doing in real life while wondering why the adults were making up big stories about you.

They were going along like you were 10 and then you started doing this.

The alien was you.

And now look at you. Panicking over the first cracks in judgment from your own suddenly-12-year-old.

Suddenly your mom’s voice is coming out of your mouth in those grand proclamations about how you have a JOB and don’t really have time for this.

Out here making a living and worrying this much at the same time.

*Makes a note to tell mom I finally get it.*

Can you remember how you were always reading all their reactions and learning, though? 

The embarrassment, the regret. You can name those feelings pretty easily today, but had absolutely no words for them then.

Remember when you would overhear mom confiding in her friends and wish she wouldn’t share your worst moments?

Who was that person she was describing? How many versions of you have occupied this body?

Can you believe the sprawling universe inside of a 12-year-old, in hindsight?

Now you know mom was just parenting a middle schooler for the first time, and she was scared, and looking for levity.

She was hoping they would say “my kid too,” tell her you were normal, confirm that she wasn’t a failure.

Life savers, those friends. 

Also, though: remember how dad would always sit you down and try to relate with stories about the dumb crap he did?

He would always be like, this doesn’t make it okay, but I hope it tells you I am someone you can talk to when you feel like there’s no one else.

Man, that was so huge, wasn’t it?

So maybe it’s really okay, then, when you notice an asshole inside of this one and jump on the opportunity to say HELL F%#KING NO.

Maybe the ‘F%#KING’ is an important part of the message.

Maybe the tears are too.

Maybe it lands sloppy, but still lands.

It’s cool that you always come back after you calm down to let them know you only care this much because you care so much. And how you ask pointed questions, instinctively understanding the things they feel are hard to explain at this age.

You should also remember how you kept coming back to art and creativity because some of the same ones who looked so disappointed in you also maintained how good you were at that stuff.

Some of them still have your childhood sketches on their frig, and every time you go home and see that you remember how it spoke something into you, however quietly.

Remember when Taylor said, I knew you were on my side, even when I was wrong—and you felt that, because you had felt that?

Those glimpses of your worthiness, reflected in their eyes like a tiny porch light when it got so. dark. and that’s all you had left to start from.

People loved you even when you didn’t deserve it; they made it worth the effort to try and do better tomorrow.

So maybe when you cry happy tears to your middle schooler, that matters a lot too. 

Maybe one day, they’ll see your happy reactions among the negative as coordinates on their internal map. One they can zoom out on and see the shape of the deep and remarkable person they grew into.

Maybe they can zoom in when they need to and follow your old directions back from a place where you can no longer reach them.

Maybe you are the porch light now.

Maybe your style isn’t always perfect, but your love really is.

I bet your big expectations mean a whole lot more than you think.

Maybe middle school is going to hurt differently as the mom, but just as much. 

Perhaps, what this is…. is another chance.

It could be that you, the same girl as that dumbass, became a person wise enough to connect it all.

…and just in time for your kid to really need someone like that. ♥