artificial insemination kit for humans
I was completely smitten with my first crush, and a lot of that had to do with iconic films starring Molly Ringwald. Growing up with older siblings meant I was introduced to the Brat Pack early on, watching classics like Pretty in Pink and Sixteen Candles more times than I can count. I envisioned myself as Samantha Baker, sitting on that enchanting table while Jake Ryan leaned in for a kiss, the candlelight casting a warm glow on his perfect features. I became a connoisseur of teenage angst, immersing myself in these films long before I even reached my teens.
These teen romance movies were my educational tools. I analyzed every outfit, every flirtatious line, and the suspenseful moments leading up to a first kiss. Each viewing was an exercise in empathy; I felt the highs and lows with every character. When the lead was left alone at the dance, my heart sank; when she finally won over her crush, I felt elated.
But it wasn’t just Molly Ringwald who captured my attention. I could recite every line and mimic the awkward dance moves of Patrick Dempsey in Can’t Buy Me Love, which is no coincidence, given that my first love had a lawn-mowing business. I could easily picture myself riding off with him on the back of his mower, wearing his well-loved hat to tame my wild, honey-blonde hair.
Fast forward to today, and I’m no longer that high school girl meticulously tracking my crush’s schedule. Instead, I’m a parent, sharing these movies with my own teens. I’ve introduced my 16-year-old son to some of my favorites (as long as they’re not too cringe-worthy) and sometimes we explore newer films he’s discovered online. One recent pick was Spontaneous, described on Wikipedia as an “American science fiction romantic black comedy film.”
While I won’t spoil it, I can say that it lived up to its description—and we all hated the ending. The romantic plotline, filled with stolen kisses and a perfect soundtrack, would have thrilled my teenage self.
However, my experience watching it was remarkably different. Instead of viewing the film through the protagonist’s lens, I found myself adopting a parental perspective. When the characters shared a sweet dance, I worried about whether her parents were fretting over her late return. And when other parents received tragic news about their children, I felt their pain as if it were my own. This shift in perspective was both strange and enlightening; I’d typically immersed myself in the experiences of the teen characters, but now I was relating to the adults.
Perhaps this shift was influenced by the presence of my son, as I felt compelled to seize every teaching moment. I even found myself whispering, “I hope they’re using protection,” during a more intimate scene, much to his chagrin.
Today’s teen movies often tackle heavier themes such as mental health and the darker aspects of adolescence. While my favorites like The Breakfast Club touched on these topics, they were not as central to the narrative through my youthful eyes, which were mostly focused on John Bender’s rebellious charm. Now, as a mother, I view these films through a lens tinted by concern for my post-pandemic teenage sons, who are navigating a complicated world during an already tumultuous stage of life.
But it’s not just the films that have evolved; I’ve changed too. Motherhood has made me more protective and emotional, amplifying my worries about real-life mistakes, illnesses, and heartbreaks. I can’t help but think of my sons, eager to explore relationships and the world beyond our home. Once, I was the one dreaming of conquering the world; now, I’m intent on ensuring that world is safe for my adventurous teens.
Since this perspective shift, I haven’t revisited my cherished childhood films. I’m not ready to relive Sixteen Candles through the eyes of Brenda Baker, the frazzled mother who forgot her daughter’s birthday. And if I were to watch Can’t Buy Me Love from a parent’s viewpoint, would I find myself sympathizing with Cindy Mancini’s mom when her expensive jacket gets ruined? I sincerely hope not. I still want to imagine myself riding off on that mower, where the endings are always joyful and the stakes low.
For now, I’ll continue to watch films with my son, even if this new perspective has dimmed some of the carefree joy I once felt. I will also try to keep my parental instinct to offer unsolicited advice in check, allowing him to enjoy the moment. Watching the film’s parents, I can’t help but hope their kids, like mine, find their happily ever after—or at least some memorable moments set to a perfect soundtrack.
For more insights on similar experiences, check out this blog post.
Leave a Reply