If you are parenting your own "my cute teens Veronica," here is the wisdom I have earned through trial and error (mostly error):
Dear V,
I know you think I am embarrassing. I know you think I don't "get it." And you are right—I don't get the skinny jeans (or are they wide-leg now? I can't keep up).
But here is what I get: You. The girl who still holds my hand in the parking lot when she thinks no one is looking. The girl who laughs at her own jokes before she finishes telling them. The girl who cried for an hour when the stray cat didn't come back.
You are the best thing I ever did with my life. You are my cute teen, but you are also my hero.
One day, you will be thirty. You will have your own apartment, your own job, your own life. And I will still think of you as "my cute teens Veronica." I will still have the photo of you at fourteen, covered in flour from a failed baking experiment, grinning like a maniac.
That is the gift you gave me. You made me a parent. You made me softer, braver, and more confused than I have ever been. my cute teens veronica
Thank you for the chaos. Thank you for the attitude. Thank you for existing.
Now please clean your room.
Love, Dad (The Embarrassing One)
"My cute teens Veronica" exists in two worlds. There is the physical world—the dinner table, the soccer field, the back seat of my car. Then there is her digital world—TikTok, Instagram, Discord, Snapchat.
In her digital world, I do not exist. I am a cartoon character who pays for Wi-Fi. She communicates in memes and abbreviations I have to Google. ("What does 'NPC' mean? Why am I one?")
But here is the miracle in the digital age: sometimes, she forgets to block me from seeing her social media story. I get to see a glimpse of "my cute teens Veronica" through her friends' eyes. She is funny. She is kind. She defends the quiet kid in class. She sends her friends voice memos of encouragement. If you are parenting your own "my cute
She is everything I hoped she would be. She just doesn't want me to know that she knows that.
Veronica is a [character from a book/TV show/movie/fan fiction/original story]. She has captured the hearts of many with her [unique personality/interesting background/relatable traits].
I remember the exact moment I realized my Veronica wasn't a little kid anymore. It wasn't on her thirteenth birthday. It was a random Tuesday. She was doing homework at the kitchen table, chewing on the end of a pen, muttering about the Pythagorean theorem.
She looked up to ask for help, and the afternoon light hit her face. The last remnants of baby fat on her cheeks were gone. Her eyelashes were longer. She had a quiet confidence in her posture that wasn't there a month ago.
In that second, my brain short-circuited. I didn't see the toddler who used to smear yogurt in my hair. I saw a young woman. A cute teen. My cute teen. Veronica.
That is the sneaky thing about parenting teens. You spend so much time managing the attitude and the eye-rolling that you forget to look at them. When you finally do, you realize they have become art. Without more details, here's a generic template that
Veronica is growing into someone thoughtful, funny, and creatively bold. She’s an ordinary teen in many ways and wonderfully herself in all the best ways—proof that the small, everyday moments add up to something deeply lovable.
Without more details, here's a generic template that could be adapted for a variety of contexts:
The older Veronica gets, the deeper the conversations become. We have moved past "why is the sky blue?" into "what is the meaning of consent?" and "how do I know if I am a good person?"
These talks are terrifying. I am not qualified to answer these questions. I am just a guy who used to wipe applesauce off her chin.
But she asks me anyway. She sits cross-legged on the end of my bed at 10:30 PM, when the house is quiet, and she peels back the layers of her heart. She tells me about her fears—about college, about friendships, about whether she is pretty enough.
In those moments, "my cute teens Veronica" is not a phrase. It is a prayer. She is so achingly beautiful in her vulnerability. Her hair is messy. She is wearing that giant sweatshirt. She is holding a pillow.
I want to freeze time. I want to build a museum to this exact second.
But I cannot. So I just listen. And I tell her the truth: You are enough. You have always been enough.