How I Learned To Let Go & Just Hang Out With My Tween

There was a time when spending time with my son didn't require forethought. Once an overexcited duckling, eager to follow me around for spontaneous adventures, fort-building, and outdoor play, he's now 10 and entering the world of tweendom. As he grows, meaningful bonding requires a new level of strategy.

These days, whenever I suggest an activity, he greets it with skepticism, disinterest, or an elaborate counteroffer that usually revolves around spending $100 on outings or watching an endless loop of YouTube creators completing challenges in mansions. He's still my same kid, but his interests have shifted in ways that leave me scrambling to catch up.

While I'd love nothing more than to spend an afternoon working on an elaborate Lego build or getting lost on a hiking trail — things he still enjoys in theory — it's getting harder to hold his attention on these slower, more engaging projects when the pull of gaming, YouTube, and the thrill of spending all his spare time with friends feels far more enticing.

So, as I've settled into life post-divorce and adjusted to parenting from a new home, I've had to get creative. My mission: find ways to bond with my tween that don't involve spending tons of money or feigning an interest in YouTubers with floppy hair and an insatiable energy for pranks.

My approach? Trickery.

I start small. I pick out a puzzle we chose together and lay it out on the table, casually mentioning how fun it would be while listening to a Diary of a Wimpy Kid audiobook or talking about his day. Predictably, he immediately suggests watching The NHL's 15 Worst Ref Moments on YouTube instead. A negotiation begins. "Fine, one minute of YouTube for every 15 minutes of puzzling," I offer. He counters: "One penalty per puzzle piece." Eventually, we settle on "Let's just do the damn puzzle," and within 30 minutes, we've abandoned the pieces entirely, fully engrossed in a compilation of hockey fights while he absently places two pieces before wandering off for snacks.

Snacks, I've learned, are another tool in my arsenal. A casual "I'm making popcorn" announced in the most disinterested tone possible is guaranteed to summon him to the kitchen. Once there, I strategically mention a weird video I saw about popcorn popping in slow motion, which somehow leads to a deep-dive on the origins of microwave technology. Is it the heartfelt bonding experience I envisioned? No. But technically, yes.

Sometimes, reverse psychology does the trick. "It's raining! Let's go outside and splash in puddles like we used to," I declare, watching as boredom drains the life from his face. "Never mind, I guess you're too old for that." I wait three minutes. "OK, but only for a little bit," he grumbles. Fifteen minutes later, he's soaked, carrying a handful of worms, laughing, and engaged in an aggressive splash battle. Afterward, he wraps up in a blanket on the couch and will sit with me as long as I make us some hot cocoa.

And there's still something about building forts that we can both get behind. It has actually become a sneaky tactic of mine. I casually drape a blanket over some chairs and announce, "This is NOT a fort. I was just… moving things." He eyes me skeptically but pretends to ignore it. Five minutes later, he's "fixing" it into a real fort, pointing out where I've gone wrong and suggesting improvements. Soon, he's fully invested — expanding it, finding the best pillows, and ensuring balance and integrity to the structure. Two hours later, we're inside, munching Cheetos, sipping seltzer, while I listen to a video game strategy I'll never quite grasp.

Even car rides require a bit of strategy. I suggest a drive with no set destination, letting curiosity kick in. Eventually, he starts talking — usually about his latest music interests. These days, it's early 2000s hip-hop, a genre I can actually vibe with. In fact, it allowed me to wow him with my long-forgotten ability to recite lines from Eminem's The Real Slim Shady, a moment where the gap between his generation and mine shrinks.

Lately, I've softened on the YouTube battle, finding a surprising middle ground with my son. He's always been drawn to building things from scratch — whether it's duct tape and recycling pile creations or pulley systems from old hockey skate laces and plastic bottles. We stumbled on Bogdan in the Forest, a channel where a bushcrafter silently shares his survival skills and shelter-building while living alone with his dogs in the wilderness. Watching his calming, intriguing process has sparked my son's curiosity in new ways, making the screen time feel like a shared experience rather than a solo activity. The quiet focus of Bogdan's work mirrors my son's interest in creating with his hands, and for once, it feels less like passive consumption and more like a conversation between us.

In the end, I've learned that sometimes the best bonding happens when I stop trying so hard. I give in. I climb into the fort. I eat the Cheetos. I let him call me "bruh" unironically. I listen to his rambling explanations about obscure video game lore. I watch a highlight reel of sports bloopers I don't understand. And I remember that despite all my failed attempts at meaningful connection, what he really wants — what he's always wanted — is just to hang out with me. So, I chill the eff out.

Molly Wadzeck Kraus is a freelance writer and mother of three. Born and raised in Waco, Texas, she moved to the Finger Lakes region of New York, where she worked in animal rescue and welfare for many years. She writes essays and poems about feminism, mental health, parenting, pop culture, and politics. She is usually late because she stopped to pet a dog. She tweets at @mwadzeckkraus.