The Card I Didn't Know How to Write to My 13-Year-Old

The author and her children on Artist Point Trail in Yosemite National Park.

My family went to Yosemite during spring break, two weeks before Little J’s 13th birthday. After a magnificent three-mile hike and a delicious steak dinner cooked in the open air, Little J and Baby J retreated to the trailer, nested into the futon, and played video games. Dr. J and I invited them to go for a walk, but they said, “No thanks.”

So we took the walk by ourselves. At the campground store, I saw they sold cards with stamped envelopes. I decided to buy one, write Little J a birthday note, and send it home from there.

That was supposed to be a nice surprise, but my mind went blank when I sat down at a table in the clubhouse to write the card. I didn’t know what to write. I wanted to write something a 13-year-old would find funny and inspiring, but couldn’t come up with anything.

I sighed. I was a very socially awkward child at 13; I never knew how to interact with my peers. I just couldn’t believe that after 30 years, I still didn’t know how to talk to a 13-year-old—my own child.

I had to write it fast; we told the children we’d be back to the trailer in 20 minutes. I ended up writing some cliché like, “I’m so glad we had the adventure together at Yosemite…but the real adventure of my life is watching you grow into the young man you’re becoming…I’m so proud of you, son…blah, blah, blah.”

I could practically see him rolling his eyes when I put the sealed card into the mailbox in front of the clubhouse. Let’s be honest: connecting with teenage children is hard.

During my five years as a parenting columnist, I wrote numerous articles advising parents on how to connect with a teenage children. Enter their world. Practice active listening. Share low-pressure time. I could go on and on and on, but the truth is, I didn’t have a teenage child myself until now. And only now do I realize what “easier said then done” really means.

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It’s hard to enter his world because I’m just not into video games, Science Olympiad, or competitive swimming, and I can’t pretend otherwise. Active listening doesn’t always happen because, well, he doesn’t talk to me that much anymore—and I can’t ask too many questions; that would violate the rule of keeping things low-pressure.

The card landed in our mailbox two days after we came home from Yosemite. Baby J saw it and excitedly brought it to his big brother, who was doing his homework at his desk. I stood in the hallway to eavesdrop on them. (Yes, I’m guilty.)

“You got a letter!

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t you gonna open it? Who’s it from?”

“It’s Mom. So obvious. I’ll open it next week.”

“Why? And how do you know?”

“Because of the handwriting. I guess it’s a birthday card. She probably planned for it to arrive on my birthday next week, but it got here early. I’ll save it until then.”

I slipped into the restroom before Baby J came out.

Little J finally opened the card last night on his birthday. I peeked him over my cake as he read it. I was relieved when he didn’t roll his eyes. He finished reading, said thanks, and reached for another piece of cake.

I didn’t know if that could be considered a success. But he opened it, read it, and kept it. Maybe connecting with teenagers isn’t about grand breakthrough after all—just small gestures, quietly received.

**This is a cross post from medium.com.