>Not Cool Like That

I always thought that I would be the “cool” parent– you know, the one to whom all my kids’ teenage friends talk about their problems, the one who’s realistic about alcohol and sex and dating, the one to whom my own children tell all their stories, no matter how embarrassing or bizarre.

Even as my oldest stepdaughter entered high school, I was convinced of my inherent coolness. Of course, it helped matters that she doesn’t drink or use drugs or party and that she trusts us enough to tell us all the sordid details about everyone who does. My husband and I have often wondered what we did to deserve this girl; we certainly weren’t this angelic when we were her age. In my infinite wisdom, I smugly figured that her behavior had to be due to the fact that we were so awesome, she didn’t feel the need to act out.

Now, though, my younger stepdaughter has entered high school. Unlike her sister, she keeps her affairs to herself, and often can be caught looking at her father and me as if we were both wearing dunce caps and covered in infected boils. Her logic, too, has me a bit worried. The other day, when we were discussing a boy we know who has turned into a total drug addict and I wondered aloud how his parents could let it happen, her response was:

“If he wants to use drugs, his parents really can’t do anything to stop him.”

Poof! My so-called coolness evaporated in a cloud of smoke.

“Oh yes they can!” I said vehemently. “They can send him to rehab at the very least. They can take his ass out of school and tell him he’s homeschooling until he gets his act together. They can take away his car and his cell phone and his computer and they can get him counseling and they can do something about it!”

“Yeah,” she muttered finally. “I guess they can…”

I was surprised by my outburst, but as I’ve listened to her attitude toward drugs and alcohol become more and more blase over the last year, it has occured to me that, while she’s not doing anything wrong now, at some point in the near future, I might have to have The Talk with this girl. And despite all my parenting plans and schemes, I will most certainly not be cool.

“Drinking or using drugs at your age are very, very bad decisions,” I told myself in the mirror that afternoon, after the girls had left to buy makeup at Walgreen’s. (Yes, laugh if you must, but occasionally, I rehearse important conversations in the hallway mirror, generally without even realizing I’m doing it.) “If I even suspect you’re drinking and trying to hide it from us? I will show up at your friends’ houses when you least expect it. I will be that mom, who calls and asks the parents who’s chaperoning and whether there’s going to be alcohol present. I will have long conversations with you when you get home, so that I can be absolutely certain you’re under the influence of nothing stronger than Starbucks. If you want to keep your doings to yourself, I have no choice but to find out on my own what you’re up to. And it won’t be pretty.“

And then I stopped and stared at myself. Because before my eyes, I was becoming my mom. Ack! (No offense, mom!)

But I’m realizing something as I watch my teenage stepdaughters grow into young women. More than I want to be their friend, I want them to live. I don’t want them to be killed in a drunk driving accident. I don’t want them to drink until they pass out and get assaulted by some teenage bastard friend of a friend of a friend. I don’t want them to get busted for possession of marijuana and spend the night in jail. They are bright, beautiful girls with great futures ahead of them and you know what? It’s my job to make sure they get there, even if I have to make some unpopular decisions in the process.

There is a need for balance, of course. I don’t want to lock them up and keep them from going to parties and events just because I suspect that not everyone there will sober. I don’t want them to ride with a drunk driver, as I did when I was their age, because they’re afraid that if they call me, they’ll be punished. I will reward them for giving me information, even if it’s not information I like to hear. But I won’t be like so many other parents of teens I’m seeing around me, turning a blind eye to what’s going on in my stepdaughters’ lives, just so that I can avoid conflict and “get along” with them.

I have to trust that the time for real friendship will come in a few years, when they’re adults and responsible for themselves. I have to trust that eventually, they’ll understand that all of my actions meant only that I loved them with a ferocity that, as teenagers, they couldn’t even comprehend.

This post originally appeared on Parents.com.