It starts with ice cream after dinner. Then it’s “one more show,” “one more toy,” “one more cookie.” Before you know it, you’re the genie from Aladdin, granting every wish just to keep the meltdown away.

We might think scrubbing away every germ keeps kids safe. Actually, when we turn homes into cleanrooms, we raise children with fragile immune systems — and anxious views of life.

When parenting teens we are sometimes left bewildered, staring at the shifting teen weather (mood) patterns like a farmer without an umbrella. Should I plant crops or build an ark... or give up on farming completely? It’s tempting — dangerously tempting — to interpret these shifting moods as deep flaws. We might mutter under our breath: “She’s so dramatic. He’s so lazy. They’re impossible.” But by doing so we are mistaking turbulence for identity.

Every parent’s been there — staring at the unattended phone, convincing themselves it’s “responsible curiosity.” But when parenting turns into private investigation, trust takes the hit. Let's look at why our fear of what we don’t know pushes us to scroll, search, and snoop — and how giving our tweens space to breathe might be the thing that keeps them talking to us in the long run.

There’s a strange, universal moment in parenting teens: one day, your child makes a surprisingly insightful observation about life. Fast-forward to later that same day when this almost-adult, leaves a full glass of milk in their room for three days until it begins to resemble a new species.

Somewhere in the modern parenting handbook (probably buried under Lego sets and a broken Paw Patrol tower), there’s an unwritten rule: good parents provide endless toys. Educational toys. Sensory toys. STEM kits. Wooden Montessori-approved toys. Plastic light-up ones that sing until you lose your mind. But in the end, despite the mountain of options, kids always end up playing with… the cardboard box.

Every aisle, website, and Instagram ad insists we must have the newest swing, bassinet, or stroller designed by NASA engineers. The irony? Our baby usually prefers our arms.