I have two adult daughters who are the light of my life, but I have to admit---their teen years were not the brightest. I could have done without the arguments over the boys they dated, the clothes they wore or the fact that they mastered crawling out of a bedroom window late at night without disturbing the dogs.

     Any parent who makes it through their child's teen years unscathed deserves a metal of honor. Perhaps more so if they've been able to successfully raise daughters.

     There are certain things that no parent should EVER have to say to their little darlings once they've transitioned from the tea party, dress-up stage to Cyndi Lauper's girls-just-wanna-have-fun stage. Although the parent may feel they have a handle on raising their teen girl, it's inevitable that one or all of the following lines will be uttered from their lips at one time or another:

*Drop that hem about four more inches before you leave the house.

*You want to put a tattoo where?

*I know you consider twerking a skill, but that still doesn't mean you should dance like that in public.

*You'll need to buy another cell phone just to store all your bathroom selfies.

*Of course you won't gain five pounds from eating three Milk Duds at the movie theatre.

*No, I'm not leaving work just to bring you a tampon at school.

*You could save a lot of money by actually washing your clothes instead of buying new ones to avoid doing laundry.

*There's a great deal on Amazon right now for chastity belts.

*No, you're not allowed to get your belly button, nose or nipples pierced.

*You're not going to experience life on the back of a motorcycle until you're over twenty-one.

*Yes, there really is such a thing as too much eye liner.


*I don't care how cute he is---if his I.Q. matches his shoe size, you can't date him.

*No, you won't be scarred for life by scraping old food off the dishes before you load them into the dishwasher.

*If the clock strikes twelve and you're not home, your car won't turn into a pumpkin but your social life will turn into the black hole while you're grounded.

*No, you're not allowed to use your college loan money for a Brazilian butt lift.



     I'm proud to say that I survived raising two teen girls----despite a few tattoos and piercings along the way. Thank God for BOGO sales on chastity belts!

   


Want more Meno Mama? This week, my article, "The Invisible Generation," is up on The Huffington Post.  You can read it here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcia-kester-doyle-/the-invisible-generation_b_6938344.html

1. You'll no longer need to waste money on expensive theme parks with fast rides. Your teen will gladly attach your rolling office chair to his bike with a rope and pull his buddies down a busy highway. Like heart-stopping rides? This one's for you.
   
   
2. Piss yellow will become your favorite bathroom tile shade because there isn't enough Clorox in the world to make those urine stains around the toilet disappear.
     
3. Like exotic pets? Great, because small critters love to nest in the sour-smelling pile of laundry at the back of your son's closet. Dirty dishes and half eaten cheese sticks will also invite armies of cockroaches set up their vacation homes under his bed.
   
   
4. If you failed science in high school, don't worry. You're going to get a hands-on education about fire, electricity, and how much damage a potato bomb can do to your neighbor's fence.
   
   
5. You'll lose those last, stubborn ten pounds because all boys are born with noses like bloodhounds. They'll sniff out every hidden cookie, potato chip, and even the chocolates from Mother's Day that you tried to disguise in an empty Summer’s Eve douche box. Your grocery bill will triple during his teen years but your waistline will shrink. Just be sure to lock the liquor cabinet before he turns fifteen.
   
   
6. Miss those nights of club hopping from your twenties? Relive your youth when your teenager hosts raves in his room while blasting techno and dubstep from subwoofers the size of refrigerators. Toss back some tequila shots chased by a few aspirin and you'll feel like you've time traveled back to the good ol' days at a fraternity house party.
   
   

     For as long as I can remember, my husband has been haunted by the ghost of old injuries. Although I've been dubbed the Queen Of Klutz, my guy has ended up in the emergency room more often than I have. An accident on the baseball field in his teens left him with the knee caps of an eighty-year-old man. They creak and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies Cereal whenever he pushes himself off the couch.
     It doesn't help that this middle-aged man thinks with the brain of a twenty-five-year-old. He never turns down a challenge on the basketball court and will gladly snap on a knee brace just to keep up with the young
whippersnappers. One year when my son's friends gathered in the front yard with their skateboards and BMX bikes to perform stunts, The Hubs didn't want to miss out on all the fun. He assured the boys that he was quite the cyclist in his youth, and that there wasn't a ramp around that he couldn't conquer. Sensing a challenge, the teens goaded The Hubs into reliving his boyhood days one ramp at a time. He swaggered over to the bike with the confidence of Evil Kinevil before hopping on and peddling full force down the street. Up he went, over the ramp, gliding though the air with the glory of youth shining in his eyes.

     And then his feet slipped off the pedals and the bike landed with a resounding thud on the hard pavement. Good thing we were past the procreation stage in our lives since my husband lost his family jewels that day on the BMX bike from hell.

     When my youngest daughter turned eleven, she invited a group of friends over for a slumber party. While the girls ate pizza and watched spooky movies, my husband came up with a brilliant idea that only a prepubescent teenage boy would admire. He donned a rubber monster mask and crept outside to give the girls a little scare. Just as they were settling down into their sleeping bags, The Hubs popped up and pounded on the window to frighten them. The girls shrieked, glass shattered and the "monster" became strangely quiet. That's when I noticed the two, red fountains pulsing from his wrists. My husband had inadvertently sliced both on the broken windowpane and needed immediate medical attention.

    The paramedics found it hard to believe that a middle-aged man would skulk around his own backyard on a Saturday night with a mask. If they'd seen him the week before in a Velcro suit on a Velcro wall at Disney World after too many jello shots, they'd understand.

     Alcohol has always been the liquid courage that prompts men to do stupid things. My husband is no different. After a rousing game of beer pong with a group of college students, my overly confident husband challenged his two, strapping sons to a wrestling match. Oh yes, he was once the captain of the wrestling team in high school. Thirty years ago. Which explains why he ended up face first in a nightstand drawer and woke the next morning to a deviated septum and two black eyes.
   
 There have been countless knee injuries, sprained ankles, sore backs, torn ligaments, broken toes, fingers and black eyes since then. I can't help but wonder if my husband's co-workers have speculated on the nature of our marriage. Menopausal women have tempers, after all.
     At this rate, I'll need to buy stock in Advil or Aleve since arthritis is Mother Nature's revenge on my middle-aged man.
     Time to trade the BMX bike in for a motorized wheelchair.