When my kids were younger, frustration was a frequent visitor. Picture this: the school bus arrives, and one of my sons has somehow wedged his arm between the grill and the hood of the car—like, why would you stick your arm into a mysterious, dark space? Then there were the times they’d take forever to reach the bus stop, causing them to miss the bus yet again. I can’t forget the dead-weight moments at busy intersections or when I had to wade into a fountain to rescue a giggling three-year-old who thought it was hilarious to evade capture. Yup, frustration was a constant companion.
As they grew, that feeling—what I like to call “the urge to wring your child’s neck”—only intensified. Ah, the ding-dong ditch phase, which would have been amusing if my kids didn’t get caught by an irate neighbor every single time. And then came middle school, where they discovered the thrill of illegal fireworks and the “pass out” challenge. This marked the beginning of boundary-testing and the infamous talk-back years, where I frequently heard whispers of “stupid” and “I hope you die” as they stormed out of the room.
Now, we’re in the high school phase—the glorious time when they start dabbling in alcohol and disregarding road rules. They’re no longer sneaking toilet paper in their backpacks for harmless pranks; it’s gummies and Reds that lead to a night of regret. I could be gone for just two hours, and upon returning, my home smells like Axe (forever a classic) mixed with whatever perfume the girls are using these days. When I ask about my missing knickknack, I’m labeled paranoid and told I’m ruining their lives.
I used to be cool back in the day—at least, that’s how I remember it. As a mom of young kids, I was the room mom who got hugs galore, and my sons were proud to have me volunteer at their school library. Now, as a mom of teens, I feel like just a walking credit card and a fridge restocker.
So, yes, I have every right to feel annoyed when I ask them to do a simple task that takes 13 seconds and am met with exaggerated eye rolls. I can get frustrated when I shout for help unloading groceries and they vanish into the bathroom for just the right amount of time for me to do it alone. I’m allowed to be irked when they say I “wouldn’t understand” because I was born in the “nineteen-hundreds.”
And I absolutely have the right to fume when they start lecturing me about how there’s no wage gap or that feminism is simply man-hating. They might even try to convince me that QAnon isn’t a conspiracy theory or that Covid isn’t their issue, claiming that wearing masks can damage your lungs. When do I finally lose my cool? It’s that repeated moment of realization that they’ve baited me into a rant, and I’ve fallen right into their trap once again.
This, my friends, is when I know it’s time for a rage room. If you’re unfamiliar, a rage room (or anger room, smash room) offers a “safe space to shatter your anger—literally. You can throw a plate, bash an old computer with a sledgehammer, or take a golf club to a photo of your ex.”
Unfortunately, despite hundreds of these venues across the U.S. and even in places like Dubai or Buenos Aires, there’s no rage room in my area. No problem! I can create my own. I just need a hatchet, a box cutter, and a sledgehammer—and I already have a basement full of broken 150-lb. TVs to take out my frustrations on. I even have Aunt Evelyn’s old piano missing three keys, a 20-year-old washing machine that shreds clothes, and bins of broken toys filled with moths and spider eggs. I’m ready to smash some stuff up.
I’m just biding my time until the next blow-up. If my kids keep this up—and if I know myself—it’ll be soon. I might even invite other moms of teens over for a smashing session. I’ll provide the safety goggles and tire irons; they can bring the rage.
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Summary:
The humorous frustrations of parenting teens can feel overwhelming, leading to the desire for a “rage room”—a safe space to unleash pent-up anger. As kids grow, the challenges evolve from innocent antics to more serious issues, leaving parents feeling like mere providers. The author humorously considers creating her own rage room to cope with the chaos, inviting other moms to join in the cathartic destruction.
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