I try very hard to relate to our daughters. Sometimes I try too hard. I find myself examining my teenage life with a microscope, looking for any situation that seems similar to something the girls are going through. And then, before I can stop myself, I say the five words that make my daughters cringe:

“When I was your age….”

My intentions are good. I want them to know that I understand. I get it. I can help. But, for some mysterious reason, all my good intentions fall flat on their you-know-what. I get the glazed over stare and polite silence, sometimes served with a side of eye rolls. This doesn’t happen all the time, but often enough. It usually ends with me feeling pouty and left out. Very mature, I know.

I finally understand that my “When I was your age” doesn’t really connect with my daughters – it invalidates them. I made them feel that I was comparing myself to them, and that they were coming up short. I was taking away their experience and making it all about me.

Ouch.

I have to remind myself often that they are not me. They’re entitled to their own experiences and life lessons. James and I are here to guide, protect, discipline, love, etc., but not to live their lives for them. I still fall into the “When I was your age” trap at times, but I’m working to listen more to what they have to say before I interject.

And sometimes, if I’m very, very quiet, one of them will creep up to my side and softly ask, “Did this ever happen when you were my age?” Ah, Heaven.