The Limits of Being a Parent

  There comes a time in the life of every parent-child relationship, where you let go.   I have been accused of hovering, worrying and directing the life of my son way past any appropriate age.  Well, last night I think we finally passed a mutual test.  He called out for help, I wasn't there and he found another solution.   We are both proud and sad for each other.  So much so that he didn't even eat the pancake I made for him today, and I felt okay about eating it instead.  No hard feelings.

I realize the words above could have been written about any age after a child starts to eat real food.  The process of becoming an adult has so many transitions.  But the younger milestones are the stuff of children's books and parenting books galore.  Once you get over the first day you drop your kid at daycare, the first day of school, the first bike ride, the first time behind the wheel, you would think there would be easy sailing ahead.  The rest will just be a wonderful adult relationship with your begotten one, talking over interesting readings, joining me for concerts, hikes and vacations.  Well, of course not.  It is a constant pushing away, that takes decades.  Although he still  wants to be fed, we don't share any other common interests.  Even though somehow he has absorbed my political perspectives, he is loathe to admit any similarities.  Ah well, at least a paucity of employment has kept him around the home.

Yesterday evening Robert and I went to a community supper, put on by a local church. Although we had no connection to the religious aspect, I am happy to participate in any neighborhood gathering. I tried to convince my son to come along, but he refused and instead went off to water the vegetable garden at his father's house, several miles away.  Dad was gone traveling for a week and in the meantime his house was being reconstructed by a team of workmen.

After setting up the sprinklers, my son went into the house to see what might be offered by the contents of the refrigerator.  The house had new interior walls and would soon have new doors.  For now, they were all stacked up, leaning against the refrigerator, which was in the middle of the soon to be kitchen.  Somehow, the act of opening the refrigerator undid the delicate balance between the weight of the doors and opposing weight of the fridge.  As soon as Evan opened the door, the refrigerator started to fall, along with the wood doors leaning against it.  Although he was able to close the door, he was not able to right the fridge and doors.  If he managed to extract himself everything would crash to the ground, which would at least damage the new fridge and possibly trap some body part as he tried to get away.

So holding the fridge and doors against his back, Evan took out his phone and called his mother.  No answer.  This was not surprising since I rarely carry my cell phone on my body, and certainly didn't think to have it as I strolled two blocks to the church supper.  Then he tried Robert's phone.  Robert has a "smart phone' which is always with him, but he had turned the volume off in deference to the social occasion.  He did not notice the call.  So then Evan started calling his friends.  He found one close enough to come over and help.  But by the time we got back to the house and called Evan, his friend still had not arrived.  Evan had been applying his weight against the refrigerator for about 45 minutes.

So we called the friend and helped him find the house, but I could do nothing more than wait to find out whether my 21 year son would be crushed by a refrigerator or saved by his friend.   After about ten more minutes, we did find out that of course, he was saved.  My son who hates to ask for help, managed to reach out to his peers and and get what he needed, just in time.  I learned that I truly can't be there for him  every time he might need me, but I did promise myself I would learn to carry my cell phone.

 

Retirement

My friends are retiring, as in, failing to go to work each day.  Some enter a frenetic world of unpaid labor, for which they get only thanks, what they were looking for in the first place.  Others wake later and later, and dissipate the hours in some combination of household tasks and electric aided entertainment that quickly causes the sun to set. (If you ever doubt how much electricity determines your activity, throw the breaker and see how quickly you become bored.)  I watch the transition with some envy and more despair.

I have always wanted to do more than I can possibly manage.  In theory, it is only the eight hours of paid labor I do each day that gets in the way of the incredible productivity I have in my mind.  But each weekend I disprove this fantasy, as I loaf and lounge and entertain my way through my free hours. I know that if my job disappeared, I would be no more likely to get to my long list of potential accomplishments as I am in the hours between work.  I think that we have a set point for purposeful activity, just like we do for calorie intake.

Recently my eighty year old mother visited me for two weeks and put real fear into me.  Although she has been busy and involved with many activities in her life, she is markedly slower in her physical self, and has become ridden with worry and a sense of fruitlessness that spoils any effort to engage in meaningful acts.  I realize that old age is a battle between your body and your mind.  Whichever is weaker pulls the other down and the spiral can be inexorable. 

I am sure I don't want to end up like that.  I don't want to have decades with no purpose.  Even though my job has its repetitive grind, it is still the most interesting part of most days.  I think most people retire because are sick unto death with the job they have, not because life without a job seems so compelling.   But I don't know.  Retirement is something you can't know until you get there.  I'm not there by a long shot.