There are many stages of parenthood, and much is written about the first ones — the infant and toddler years. The teenager years, therefore, come as a shock. And, no, I’m not talking about the orneriness, aloofness and growing legs and feet. I’m talking about the way the teenage years impact us as mothers.

Two of my three sons are teenagers — 17- and 15-years old. My emotions about this are complicated, and they change from day-to-day. But overall, it feels a bit like this:

DENIAL

I make them dinner like I have always done for nearly two decades. Ford likes lasagna the best. I’ll have that twice this month because he is always home for lasagna. Except for that time that he was working, or when he had a school event.

And Owen — it’s hard to know when he will be around, but I will wash the clothes and fold them and put them in his drawers. I will dust his Little League trophies and arrange his baseball caps. When the picture of Darth Vader that he drew in sixth grade fell off his bulletin board, I diligently hung it back up. And I put his golf clubs back where they belong, and I picked up the ping pong balls in the basement.

Quietly.

Alone.

One foot in front of the other, doing all the things I’ve done 17 years. Pack the lunches. Pick up the socks. Knock the dried mud off the shoes.

And when they get home and breeze through the kitchen to grab a drink from the fridge, I will ask them how their day was.

ANGER

Ford was not home for tacos, but he wanted the leftovers. Doesn’t he realize how much time I put into cooking dinner? And if Owen wears his muddy shoes into the house again, I think I will lose my mind.

They don’t have any time until there is something they need. I get the text at 4:58 p.m.: Can you pick me up at 5:00? As if I don’t have a million other things I need to do. Can’t they give me a little more heads up than 2 minutes?

And when I go to pick him up, it’s not like he will talk to me anyway. He just sits in the passenger seat and stares out the window. Or he looks at his phone and texts his friends. I ask him who was at the party and he just shrugs.

I am a cook and a taxi driver.

BARGAINING

I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. The clock ticks on the wall, but I don’t dare look at it. It’s better not to know how many hours of sleep you are missing.

I remember that time I put Ford in time out and accidentally left him there too long. He fell asleep in the chair with Thomas the Tank trains clutched in his little hand. If I could just go back and yell at myself: “Go get him, Sarah, you terrible mother!”

Does he hate me forever for this?

Owen says his first memory is of me chasing him around the living room and trying to make him take his medicine. He was crying and I was frustrated. Why didn’t I have more patience? If I could just go back and sit him down, talk calmly for a minute and explain why he needed the medicine for his pneumonia. Would he be a better eater today? Would he actually like something I cooked?

When he leaves home, will he come visit me?

DEPRESSION

I hate Facebook’s “On This Day” feature. Every morning I see these little boys’ faces smiling back at me from across the years, through all the heartaches and sleepless nights.

Their cheeks are so plump, their teeth so small. I can still hear Owen say “Mama.”

I scroll past these moments quickly. Best not to get stuck in the past, or I might never come back out of it. If I see a picture of Baby Ford on my phone, I cry on the spot. It hurts deep inside my heart. Sometimes, it feels like my whole body is breaking with sadness.

I miss those little boys.

ACCEPTANCE

“Never say you don’t want your kids to grow up,” my friend says. “Some mothers didn’t have the chance to see their boys turn into men.”

Ford’s favorite thing to say these days is “I don’t need you to do that, Mom.” He doesn’t need me to drive him. He doesn’t need me to take his temperature. He doesn’t need me to make his lunch. He could probably make lasagna himself.

He is smart, patient, caring, funny, dependable and honest.

“I know you don’t need me for many things anymore,” I told him. “But just know that I am always here — always — for anything you do need.”

Then to lighten the mood, I added, “Until I’m too old to drive or walk — you get the picture.”

“Then that’s when I’ll be there for you, Mom,” he said.

And I knew I had done an OK job.