I have discovered that I possess a superpower. Not the kind that involves flying or X-ray vision, but something far more extraordinary—I have become completely invisible to my teenage child. Well, not entirely invisible. I am quite visible when required to sign permission slips, transfer money, or explain why the wifi isn’t working at 2 AM. But when it comes to giving advice, instructions, or the simple suggestion that perhaps underwear doesn’t belong on the dining table, I apparently cease to exist.

Yesterday, I told my fourteen-year-old to take out the garbage. I said it while standing directly in front of him. I said it clearly. I said it three times. He looked right through me as if I were a ghost.

The strange thing about teenagers is that their hearing works in mysterious ways. Mention the word “pocket money” in a whisper from three rooms away while they’re wearing headphones, and they appear instantly. But ask them to switch off the lights they’ve left on in every room, and suddenly you’re speaking a language they don’t understand.

I have tested this theory many times. “Time for dinner”—no response. “Your room is a mess”—silence. “Please put your phone down for five minutes”—I might as well be talking to a wall. But whisper “pizza” or accidentally mention someone’s crush, and the response is lightning fast.

The other day, my husband and I discussed this. “They do listen,” he said hopefully. “They just process information differently.”

I pointed out that last week I asked our teenager to pick up milk on his way home about seventeen times. He nodded each time. The milk never came home. What did come home was a new gaming poster, three bags of chips, and a long explanation about why the milk aisle was “too crowded.”

I’ve started writing down my requests in a notebook. It’s titled “Things I Have Said That Apparently Never Happened.” It’s already quite thick. My favorite entry is from last month when I spent twenty minutes explaining why his science project needed to be submitted on time. He assured me he was listening. Two days later, when his teacher called, he seemed completely confused about the whole project, as if I’d never mentioned it at all.

Scientists should study this selective hearing. It’s remarkable. These are the same children who can hear you opening a packet of biscuits from the other end of the house but somehow miss you calling their name forty-seven times to come for dinner. They can hear the smallest criticism of their favorite singer from behind closed doors but are completely deaf to suggestions about wearing clean clothes.

My mother finds this hilarious. “What goes around comes around,” she laughed last week, reminding me of my own teenage years. Apparently, I too was once an expert at selective hearing. Karma, it turns out, has an excellent memory and a wicked sense of humor.

I’ve tried different approaches. Speaking loudly—they say I’m shouting. Speaking softly—they claim they can’t hear me. Writing things down—they lose the paper. Sending texts—they don’t check (except when they’re checking every three seconds for everything else). Setting reminders—they ignore the alerts. Bribing them—they take the money and still don’t listen. It’s truly an art form.

The most interesting part is their complete belief that they ARE listening. When confronted, they look genuinely confused. “But you never told me that!” they say with such confidence that you start doubting yourself. Did I imagine that conversation? Am I going crazy? And then you find the text message you sent, the note you stuck on the fridge, and the reminder you set on their phone, and you realize that no, you are not crazy. You are just the parent of a teenager.

My friend suggested reverse psychology. “Tell them NOT to do something, and they’ll do it just to rebel.” So I tried it. “Please don’t clean your room, don’t do your homework, and whatever you do, don’t talk to me.” The result? The room stayed messy, the homework remained incomplete, and I got three grunts instead of words.

Apparently, my teenager is immune even to that.

The good thing is, I know this is temporary. One day, these same teenagers will become adults who call us asking for advice, wanting to talk, seeking our opinion on everything. And on that wonderful day, I plan to perfect my own selective hearing. “Sorry, beta, I can’t hear you. Bad connection. Also, I’m busy doing nothing but everything seems more interesting than this conversation right now.”

Until then, I shall continue my life as the Invisible Parent like

( Mr. India…..lolz), giving advice to thin air, issuing instructions that vanish into space, and occasionally checking that I haven’t actually turned into a ghost. At least the garbage will get taken out eventually. Probably. Maybe. When the smell becomes bad enough that even selective deafness cannot ignore it.

And if you’re wondering whether my teenager will read this article, let me assure you—absolutely not. Unless, of course, I specifically ask him not to.

DISCLAIMER
Views expressed above are the author’s own.