Galoshes

I invite them over to my house for dinner. During the course of the conversation he is having with his brother I learn he is wearing cloth gym shoes to his dishwashing job and coming home at night with soaked feet.  He takes me up on my offer to buy him a pair of rubber boots he can slip over his shoes; I’m on Amazon later that evening making arrangements for them to be shipped directly to his place. 

I know it’s an awful cliché, but this stage – adulthood – IS the hardest stage to parent. Yes, I said we were at the hardest stage when they hit high school, and before that when they went to middle school, and likely before that when they entered elementary school.  I know I definitely said it during potty training, and when I changed diapers, toted them around in a car seat I could barely lift, and woke up to feed them in a fog in the middle of the night. And okay, maybe during childbirth, too. But I really mean it now.

I am not a helicopter parent.  If I were to place myself on the involved parent continuum, I’m definitely farther to the left. This is proving itself to be true as the time between when we all parted ways last summer and now stretches out a bit; more and more stories of my parenting negligence and ignorance are coming to light.  While it’s embarrassing, they survived and I’m certain I’m not alone.  Regardless, all parents spend a fair amount of time doing for their children.

We try to feed our kids nutritious foods, at least what was deemed to be nutritious at the time.  We make sure they get their vaccinations, take their vitamins, visit the dentist regularly.  We read to them, send them to school, do our best to pester them to do their homework. We encourage them to have friends, to pursue their interests, cheer them on at their sporting events.  Yet, all the while, in the background, they are quietly absorbing what they really need from us:  A value system, a sense of justice, a work ethic, resourcefulness, persistence, resiliency. They glean from us how to express compassion and empathy, manage anger and frustration, show leadership, listen for understanding, how to choose to love. They say the beauty of a Liberal Arts degree is the focus on teaching critical thinking.  Isn’t this something we teach at home, whether we realize it or not? 

I know these are things I learned at home.  And maybe it feels obvious and that it all happened by some happy accident because it seems like it was a simpler time.  Our family was large by today’s standards. One salary supported us all. Time and money were spread thinly across many. My parents couldn’t physically do as much for us, but they made sure what they did mattered.  Mom volunteered at the school.  Dad was a den leader for Cub Scouts.  They both taught confirmation classes attended by me and a group of my eighth grade peers in our living room, much to my horror at the time.

As I start to realize what my adult children need from me now, I have a greater appreciation for the parenting my dad has done and continues to do for his own adult children.  Drawing the line between helping out and enabling (and staying on the proper side) takes an enormous amount of courage and restraint. My dad asked us to take out student loans and carry the burden of paying them off, and then one day requested the payment book so he could take care of the balance himself.  Listening without passing judgement can mean a tongue perpetually scarred from being bitten.  I don’t recall ever hearing “I told you so” when I slunk back home after having experimented with some aspect of living that didn’t go as planned.

I now understand that Dad continues to show up and be lovingly present in our lives even though he may harbor wariness or unexpressed disagreement with choices we make, whatever those may be:  Where we live, who we live with, how we raise our own children, how we conduct ourselves in this world. And he somehow finds peace in the ceaseless silent worry for the health, happiness and well-being of his offspring that is starting to slowly strangle me. I can only hope to be this good.

We want to redact our stories, to share only the highlight reels with our parents.  We want them to be proud of our every move. Yet, there are times when we need to expose our flaws if for no other reason than to validate that we are still worthy of being loved. Conversely, as parents we want only the best for our children.  We know we sometimes can’t bear to watch their struggles, and that at any time they could call with news that has the power to break us.  Yet we show up anyway because love for our children makes us impervious; we will weather any storm they bring to us. We show up because love offers no other option.

It’s hard to stop doing for our children and trust that they’re equipped to find their own way. Amazon allows me to get my fix occasionally, to let them know in some small way I am still looking out for them, sending love from a safe distance. Yet if I had it to do all over again, I would do less and counsel more.  Sure, they were responsible for their laundry in high school, cooked their own meals when I was out, secured steady part-time employment at 15 or 16, but despite their burgeoning maturity, I spent a fair amount of time mired in telling them to act differently instead of helping them see why they should want to act differently. While I didn’t always succeed, I strove to be a sounding board instead of sounding off.  And this is what they need more than ever from me today. 

Thanks, Dad, for continuing to do the hard work, for supporting choices you may not agree with, for resisting the urge to tell us we screwed up and you saw it coming, for letting us be our own people, for displaying a love impermeable to our imperfections, and for showing us how to put on our rain gear and head out into the storm.