Parenting a Preteen: No One Prepares You for the Transition

Once upon a time, my son – my now preteen son – would beg me to go for a bike ride with him. And I would sigh, and put aside the millions of chores I had to do, and go with him. I’d leave the dirty dishes, the clothes half-folded and the veggies half chopped.

We’d go and we’d stop at a park and he’d ask me to push him on the swing. He’d ask to sit under a tree and have a snack and throw rocks into the creek. And I would. All the while looking at my phone, checking the time, mentally thinking about what needed to be done.

Six years later and now my preteen son doesn’t beg me to go for a bike ride anymore. He doesn’t beg me to push him on the swing or throw rocks into the creek. Instead, I have to literally beg him to hang out with me.

I knock on his door. He’ll look up from his gaming.

I ask: “Wanna go for a ride with me?”

“Not right now, Mum.”

I try again tomorrow. “Wanna play a board game with me?”

“Maybe later Mum.” (Spoiler alert – the ‘laters’ are few and far between these days).

The next day. “Wanna watch a movie with me?”

“Nah.”

He went from wanting to spend every waking moment by my side, tugging on my pant leg, to this … a closed-door and “Not now, Mum.”

And I went the other way. From being ‘too busy’ most of the time to … this. Knocking on his door, asking him to hang out.

I was once his best friend.

Now, I’m not. And I’m still trying to come to terms with all of this.

It’s not easy and I often overstep. I try to make him be a little boy again, baby him, fold his clothes even though I know he can do it. Make his bed even though he’s fully capable. It’s hard not to.

He has several best friends now. 12-year-old rowdy preteen best friends who say things like “yeet” and understand the complex world of what fishing hook to use on what line.

No one prepares you for this slow breakup. This transition from being needed 24/7 to being on the sidelines. Watching them go from a little boy to a young man.

But the hardest thing about parenting a preteen is that you need to learn how to be a whole new type of mum. The nurturing mum, I’ve mastered. The snack-making mum, I’ve got. The activity-driven mum, I excel. Hell, I’m pretty good at the overbearing crazy dragon lady mum too.

But the ‘back-off-and-let-them-be’ preteen mum. I’m still working on it.

Here’s what I know so far:

Parenting a preteen is this:

It’s being needed on a whole new level. And I’m not just talking about the basics like homework or rides to sport. It’s bringing him and his gaggle of hungry mates an epic snack when they take on a gaming marathon, 15 minutes before the ‘hangry’ level hits them all and they turn into ragers.

It’s the little moments. The five minutes of actual conversation when I go to meet him at the bus stop. Well, not at the bus stop, because that’s embarrassing, but if I hide in the bush up the road, then I can walk him most of the way home without his mates seeing me.

It’s holding space. Seeing a tear come to his eye when he’s struggling with homework and being right behind him to offer a hand. But only if he wants it.

It’s picking up on the signals. The door being slammed. The backpack thrown on the floor. The huffs. The puffs. The sighs. All cues that it’s my time with him. Just to sit, rub his back, tickle his feet. Not to offer advice or tell jokes or try to dissect what’s going on in that head of his. Just to be there.

It’s taking what I can get. Even if it’s just 15 minutes of watching a TV show I hate, just to sit with him. Or listening to him hammer on about some weird jungle game on PS4, just to hear the passion in his voice.

It’s watching him grow up. And remembering him as a six-year-old boy fondly, but looking at him as a 12-year-old with so much pride. Not wanting to let go, but doing so, because that’s what mums do.

It’s realising I’m not his whole world anymore. But I’m still part of his world. And a very big part at that.

It’s all still pretty new to me. But I’ll get there.

Every time I knock on his door to hang out, the soft blow of rejection stings. But, for every nine times, I knock and he says no, one time he will say yes.

The person who comes out to play with me won’t be my little boy anymore. He won’t ask about the weather or want to be pushed on the swings.

Instead, he will crack jokes that make me actually pee myself. And talk about something cool he’s learned in science that I didn’t know. Or he’ll actually beat me in chess (without me letting him win).

He’ll open the pickle jar for me or fix the kitchen lights that have once again blown. He’ll surprise me with this maturity, his strength, his hilarious sense of humour, his unique perspective on the world.

He’s not a little boy. But he’s a really cool young man. And I may not know what I’m doing anymore, but I promise you this – I will enjoy every single moment of watching him grow, even if it’s from behind a bush at the bus stop.