From Teen to Parent: Returning to the Mall Food Court with Our Kids

Once upon a time, the mall food court was the center of our teenage universe. It was where we mastered the art of loitering, nursed a single soda for hours, and lived for the drama of running into someone from school in the wild. Now, decades later, we find ourselves back in the fluorescent glow of food court seating—not as the teenagers we once were, but as the parents accompanying our own kids as they navigate this strangely familiar world.

Watching Ourselves in a New Generation

Sitting at the sticky table with an iced coffee that cost more than my first concert ticket, we watch our teenagers move through the food court like it’s their own kingdom. The confidence, the awkwardness, the energy—it’s all so achingly familiar. We recognize the way they scan the crowd, hoping to see (or avoid) someone from school. We watch as they check their Snap Maps to make sure their crushes aren't in a five-block radius. We see them congregate in loose circles, talking about absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. But while we were usually gossiping and trading Lip Smackers, they’re busy Snapchatting their smoothie, Instagramming their outfit, and texting their friend who is literally standing ten feet away.

Let’s be real though—none of them are just hanging out at the food court. It’s all about content now. The food court isn’t just a pit stop—it’s part of the production. The shopping haul isn’t real until it’s been documented, and the food? That’s just set dressing for the Instagram story.

The Evolution of the Food Court Hangout

Back in the day, the food court was where we experimented with independence. We pooled our crumpled dollar bills for shared fries, debated for way too long between Sbarro and Panda Express, and felt a thrill at being on our own—even if it was just for a few hours.

Our kids? They have Venmo. They drink elaborate lattes or smoothies. They pick their seats based on optimal selfie lighting and are more likely to post a picture of their meal than actually eat it. After all, if a food court hangout happens and it’s not documented on social media, did it even really happen?

And don’t get me started on the menu changes—where’s the suspiciously neon-orange sweet and sour chicken or the cinnamon roll that could double as a pillow? Instead, it’s all avocado toast and artisan grain bowls, because nothing screams "youthful rebellion" like responsibly sourced quinoa.

One thing that hasn’t changed? Spencer’s Gifts. Walking into that store still feels like stepping through a time warp. The lava lamps, the inappropriate birthday cards, the blacklight posters—it's all exactly as we left it, right down to the vaguely questionable novelty items we probably shouldn’t let our kids see. It’s oddly comforting to know that while everything else evolves, Spencer’s remains a beacon of rebellious mall energy (did you know they also own Spirit Halloween? It makes so much sense).

Letting Them Have Their Moment

As parents, we’re just background characters in this food court production. We’re there to provide rides, cash (or, let’s be real, Apple Pay), and a sense of security while maintaining the delicate balance of being present but not in the way. We want to warn them about the dangers of spending $14 on a smoothie, but we let them figure it out for themselves—just like we did when we blew our last $5 on a CD single from Sam Goody (which, by the way, was absolutely worth it at the time).

There’s something deeply rewarding about watching our kids claim the same spaces we once did. They move through them differently, but the underlying emotions—the excitement, the self-consciousness, the thrill of freedom—are exactly the same. And yet, as we sit there waiting for them, iced coffee in hand, it hits us—we’ve officially become our parents.

Full Circle Moments

Eventually, they come back to the table, plopping down with trays of food, half-paying attention to us while recounting something funny their friend just did. And in that moment, we get it. We’re not just parents here—we’re time travelers, slipping between past and present, marveling at the fact that while the food court may still smell like a questionable mix of fried food and sugar, the experience of growing up—of wanting to be seen, of claiming independence—never really changes.

And for the record, we’d still choose Sbarro.