When my kids were young, frustration was a common companion. Take, for example, the time the school bus showed up, and one of my boys managed to wedge his arm in the car’s grill (because why not stick your arm into a dark, mysterious crevice?). Or the countless moments they moved at a snail’s pace to the bus stop, only to miss it once again. I can’t forget the times they collapsed like limp noodles while trying to cross busy streets or how I had to wade into a fountain to retrieve a giggling three-year-old who thought it was a fun game. Oh yes, there was no shortage of aggravation back then.
As they grew older, that frustration morphed into what I now call “the urge to wring my child’s neck.” Those delightful ding-dong ditch days would have been fine if they didn’t get caught by an angry neighbor every single time—and if I didn’t have to calm that neighbor down each time! Middle school introduced them to the thrill of illegal fireworks and the infamous “pass out” challenge. It was the beginning of boundary testing, along with the infamous backtalk phase where they’d mutter insults under their breath and storm out of the room with comments about how I wouldn’t understand anything because I was born in the “nineteen-hundreds.”
And then came high school—ah, the wonderful phase of alcohol experimentation and rule-breaking. Instead of toilet paper, they’re now sneaking gummies and drinks that lead to nights of misery. I could leave the house for just two hours, and upon my return, the place would reek of Axe body spray and whatever perfume the girls are using these days. When I question the sudden disappearance of my belongings, I’m told I’m just paranoid and ruining their lives.
Once upon a time, I was the cool mom—room mom who received hugs from my kids and made them proud. Now, as a mother to teens, I feel more like a walking credit card and refrigerator filler. So, yes, I have every right to be irked when I ask them to do something that takes barely any time, only to get a dramatic eye roll in response. I’m allowed to be frustrated when I yell for help unloading groceries and they conveniently disappear into the bathroom for just enough time for me to do it all alone.
And don’t get me started on the moments when they express their opinions on topics like the wage gap or Covid. I realize, time and again, that they’re just baiting me to watch my reaction—and I fall for it every single time.
That’s when I know I seriously need a rage room. If you’re unfamiliar, a rage room (or anger room) is a space where you can safely let out your frustrations—whether that means smashing old electronics with a sledgehammer or throwing dishes against the wall. Unfortunately, despite their popularity across the U.S. and in cities like Dubai or Buenos Aires, there isn’t one nearby.
No worries; I can create my own. All I need is a hatchet, a box cutter, and a sledgehammer. My basement is already filled with broken televisions, an old piano missing keys, and a washing machine that tears clothes. Plus, I have plenty of broken toys housing dead moths and spider eggs. I’m ready to unleash some chaos!
I’ll probably invite other moms of teens to join me in this smash-fest. I’ll provide the safety goggles and tools; they can bring the rage.
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In conclusion, the challenges of parenting teens can be overwhelming, leading to the need for creative outlets like rage rooms. It’s a journey filled with ups and downs, but there’s always humor and camaraderie to be found along the way.