The Spy Who Mothered Me

Author’s Note: Some details have been changed to protect the guilty, the innocent, and the mother's creative craft.

It had been eerily quiet for a solid two weeks.

After six months of teen antics that had me hopping like a Secret Service agent, the sudden calm made me uneasy. With my teen’s busy schedule of skirting rules, asserting control, and riding hormone fluctuations that rivaled my own pre-HRT era, I knew better than to relax.

In fact, it was so quiet it was literally sus. My spy antennae went on full alert, and I caught my teen yet again.

The red flags were everywhere, and my husband was none the wiser, so I moved the beer key cache yet again, because motherhood calls for protective measures every time.

It started on a Tuesday afternoon, when my teen asked me to transfer $20 from their checking account to their savings account, because, as a minor, they don’t have online access to their savings.

Twenty dollars on a Tuesday was clue number one.

Clue number two? They claimed they didn’t need a ride after practice.

“Dad is picking me up after work,” they said.

Except Dad was running a brewery 5K, and apparently, I was the only one debriefed on the game plan.

My teen also knew they weren’t allowed to ride with a friend still in the no-passenger probationary stretch of a new driver’s license. That same kid’s parents had already called their child out once for unauthorized chauffeuring, which is why my teen promptly ducked down in the passenger seat as I drove past the gas station on my way to orchestra rehearsal.

The evasive move was almost admirable.

Unfortunately for them, the stealth vehicle was about as subtle as a marching band. Also unfortunate? They had a Big Gulp and candy in their lap, refused to answer my phone call, and appeared to believe they had dodged surveillance.

Amateur.

“So, what classes did you sign up for next year?” I asked the next day, pivoting to my follow-on line of questioning.

They had been evading that question at the dinner table for a week.

I may be menopausally forgetful and unable to remember the plot of a movie to save my life, but I always remember signing documents. Especially class schedules.

This time, I suspected denial and deception for what it was: flat-out forgery.

Relationship management is my trade, from paying gigs to motherhood, and this kid currently has me employed full-time. As an experienced mother, I am here to report that the pay is terrible, there are no benefits, and parenting teenagers should come with hazard pay, a pension, and possibly a witness protection program.

Unless, of course, you play the long game and your teen eventually matures into a responsible young adult who leaves home.

From coaches to counselors, this kid has me managing every relational angle and reinforcing every boundary, so I was not the least bit surprised when the screenshot of the forged schedule landed in my inbox.

I’ll admit, it was clever of them to approve three “free periods” for next year with a signature that was slightly more feminine and actually spelled my name correctly.

The part they did not think through was how they planned to explain “doomscrolling on the couch” for hours next year.

Since then, they have chosen to sign up for Mindfulness, Intro to Finance, and a study hall, which should allow them to focus on their grades, ground their soul, and get a jump-start on the entrepreneurial career they assure me they plan to launch by age 18. Because, naturally, they are moving out.

“Winner-winner chicken dinner,” I sang silently in my head when they not so subtly reminded me of their plans.

I know it will be bittersweet to reach empty nesting after more than 25 years in the trenches. No more sports. No more juggling carpools. No one on chore duty. No one eating $40 worth of groceries after school while insisting there is “nothing to eat.”

On the other hand, without counter-surveillance duty and sleepless nights with one ear open, I may finally be well rested enough to celebrate.

My spy antennae may retire, exhausted after decades of thankless work, but one thing is certain: my tradecraft will remain top-secret.

And I predict my bonus will more than quadruple in retirement, when they have children of their own.