Maybe hate is a strong word. But I remember when I was 17, it felt like I hated my parents.

Everything they said was stupid. Everything they did was stupid. Even when they agreed with me they were being stupid.

I grew out of it, and when I’d think back I’d feel really guilty because of how I treated them. But now I’m glad I never forgot because it’s exactly what I’m going through with my own son now.

Actually, I’m luckier than my parents because most of the time he’s as sweet and as kind as he’s always been, but then in the blink of an eye, I say one innocent comment and oh Lord – I know he cannot stand me.

And he’ll catch an attitude. And I’ll get mad. And I’ll lose my shit and snap back at him. And then I’ll feel bad. And then he feels bad too.

After one of these episodes today (and after I had a drinky-poo because we’re on vacation), I told him that I understand. That I remember how it was to be 17 and hate my parents and not even know why.

He said, “I don’t hate you.” I told him that I know he doesn’t, but sometimes it’s going to really, really feel like he does and not even know why, but he will, because it’s normal.

Fast forward… I love and respect my parents and can’t believe I was such a horror show to them back then. But it was real and hurtful to them, and now I’m experiencing the realness and hurtfulness myself. I’ll go through it with my other sons too – even though they say they will never be like that. They will.

I’ll still love them, even when I want to strangle them. And they’ll still love me, even when they loathe me.

They will grow out of it (🤞) and we’ll all get through it. Please God, help us get through it!