One of my favorite genres has always been young
adult, even before the now-immensely popular category earned its own
bookshelves and could only be vetted out among the children’s section and adult
fiction.
As an actual young adult, I felt the need to be seen
reading literary novels as I rode the commuter train, but the book on my night
table would tell a different story – one of high school romances and carefree
summers.
I was the mother of three when The Twilight Series
hit, and I truly tried to resist, but ultimately gave in and lost. For weeks my
kids survived on Nick Jr. and cereal as I read the entire series and sought out
other bleary-eyed mothers in the drop off line at school to discuss Bella and
Edward.
As an early e-reader owner I found solace in covertly
reading Pretty Little Liars on my device while simultaneously toting around a
hard copy of my book club’s latest historical fiction pick.
But, lately the thrill is gone due to the young
adults in my life. In a couple of weeks my oldest daughter will be a high
school junior, the middle daughter a freshman and the youngest in sixth grade.
Aside from the drama my girls already provide and not having a need for any
more in my life, YA books now present a dilemma I had not anticipated. They are
planting seeds of worry.
Now, I’m not naïve. I know they have lives separate
from me and do plenty of things I don’t know about and I’m sure they are feeding
me the lies they think I want to hear on a daily basis. I’ve also made them
well aware that they may think they are coming up with new and creative ways to
get away with stuff, but I am no stranger to pushing the parental limits.
Back in the day I made sneaking out an art form. My
friends tried to outdo my spectacular fibs and maneuvers, but I could not be
beat. My claim to fame remains to this day: shortly after my sixteenth birthday
my family moved to a big house. I told my parents (probably with crocodile
tears) I was scared being so far away from them and feared not being able to
get out if there was a fire. I suggested purchasing a rope ladder that can be
kept under the bed and thrown out the window in case of a fire or another
emergency; the commercials were currently running on TV. See where this is
going? Well, they didn’t and I snuck out the same night we bought it at the
hardware store. Oddly enough, I used it more to sneak friends in than I did to
escape. I’m happy to report I never had to use it in a real emergency.
Maybe the identification with the deviance was why I
liked YA books so much – until it became real. Now when I read a YA book I find
myself wondering if my girls are doing the outlandish things the characters in
the book are doing. Will S run away with her best friend’s brother tomorrow
when she told me they’re going to a movie, ‘in a group’? Is K secretly going to
cult meetings when I drop her off at guitar lessons? (I never actually see her
go in the door, hmm). Is E’s sudden interest in coding not just a nice nerdy
hobby but an attempt to hack into the school’s computer and change her grades?
If I don’t take a break our dinner conversations are
going to get weird. Instead of asking about their school day or tennis practice
I’ll be asking if they have gambling problems or participating in satanic
rituals.
“Sweetie, are you making fake IDs in the basement
when you say you’re watching Netflix?”
“Honey, pass the salt and have you been buying crack
from your science teacher?”
“I’m glad you did well on your test and by the way
are you and your friends facetiming with Russian drug lords?”
All mothers’ minds worry and go right to worst-case
scenario mode, I know this is normal. Reading about teens drinking, having sex,
skipping school and running away just doesn’t help me keep the worry in the
normal range. So for now I’ll leave the YAs and catch up on other genres.
Of
course the new Harry Potter book is an obvious exception. I’m sure I’ll see
some of you at midnight this weekend.
