I remember spending my teen years wishing my mother would find an interest in life besides me.
I was a good kid. I didn't drink, I didn't do drugs. I didn't want to do either. I painted pictures, badly, wrote poetry, read a lot, and kept largely to myself.
I endured a great deal of music I was too young to understand, because mother liked to go to concerts, and she didn't have anyone else to go with.
I also listened to all her worries, concerns, and problems. I spent a lot of time wishing she would find some friends her own age, quit trying to micromanage my life, let me learn to drive for the love of God! (I got my license 7 years ago.) and try my wings a little. No such luck.
Every year, we'd go down to the Three Rivers Arts Festival, and mother would watch the potters throw pots, and wish that she could. She finally took it up THE YEAR I STARTED COLLEGE. She could have started a lot sooner, and we both would have been happier.