Dear Miss Priss,

Today I ceased to be cool. Today I made you mad. Today, sadly, I realized that our relationship will now begin changing more and more. It seems like just the other day that you looked to me for everything, and everything I did, and said, and believed, was good enough for you.

That is no more.

So with that realization, I’m providing you with a ‘map’ of your life as I think it will lay out over the next two decades. I hope you refer to it from time to time. Something tells me it’ll be pretty darn accurate.

Your life, and our relationship, will now be laid out in five-year increments. The first five years, from now until you’re 18, you will spend disliking me, for the most part. You will call me overbearing, overprotective, and judgmental. You will remind me day in and day out that ‘everyone else’ gets to do whatever it is that I’m not letting you do. You will remind me that every other parent is cooler than I am. And I will tell you that you are right.

The next five years you will spend trying to get as far away from me and your dad — both literally and figuratively — as possible. You will explore horizons that I don’t even want to think about. I can only pray that you use good judgment and remember that everything has a consequence.

The third five-year increment will be spent missing me. You may not admit it right away, even then. But you will miss me. And you’ll need me. Here is where you’ll begin the steps towards becoming a ‘real grownup.’ And those steps can be painful at times. From time to time, you’ll pick up the phone, call me, and cry. And I’ll be there. I promise.

Lastly, from about 28 to about 34, you’ll begin, slowly, to understand where I was coming from so many years ago. And, as you start thinking about your own family, and your own children, you’ll appreciate me. I hope.

And I hope that someday you will thank me.

Because if you think for one minute that I am going to drop a thirteen-year-old CHILD off at a “SEVEN-BANDS!!!-ALL NIGHT!!!-ROCK CONCERT!!!!”???

You. Are. Out. Of. Your. Effin’. Mind.

Love, Mom.