Revolution

I remember the days of change-rolling.  Before the financial institutions had electronic counters, we picked up heavy-weight paper sleeves sized for quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies, filled them to the top and carefully folded the extra paper over the last coin to seal the tube.  We returned the coins to the bank in exchange for paper money.  The idea that change picked up here and there, carelessly discarded by people who felt they could do without, could be swapped for the rare and coveted dollar bill was a bit magical.  As a kid this was a boon, as a young adult it was a survival tactic.

Money was tight in the early years out on my own, and I was stubborn. From the moment I declared I was moving out to live in a seedy apartment complex I would later learn was a hotbed for drug dealers, I was going to make it, no matter what, without help from my parents.  At first, I played the float game with checks, mailing at the last possible second before the bill was due.  When married life and kids brought severe credit card debt, we upped our game, jumping on the carousel of minimum payments, with calliope music taunting and curse words for the carny who had long left his post and forgotten to stop the ride,   Just when we thought we were at our wits end, one of us would get a good commission or bonus check, the tax refund would sail in or grandma would send a Thanksgiving card with a few bucks for pumpkin pie. 

Thankfully, after fifteen years or so, the scales eventually came into balance. My salary slowly ticked up over time, I made life changes that transformed spending habits, got a loan to pay off debt, and put myself on a path that prioritizes security over status. But those early years were impossibly hard, and I’ve never forgotten them.  There were many sleepless nights, hysterical sobbing when the checkbook was literally at zero, the questioning of my own capabilities to be an adult and manage money.  There were so many times I wanted to admit I couldn’t do it, so many times I wanted to ask for help.

I see the slow rolling boil with my kids. Sometimes it’s about to spill over, and I want to rush in to turn down the heat before there is a mess on the stove. I think I know what’s going through their heads, that they are wrestling with asking for help, but at the same time not sure they want to let that cat out of the bag. Veiled comments hang in the air between us. I’m not sure I want the cat out of the bag either.

I think about what stopped me from asking for help.  Pride, for sure, but also the fact that I believed deep down the choices I was making about what and how to spend money and live my life would be brought into question. I wasn’t even sure I liked my choices at the time; I certainly wasn’t ready to defend what I thought would be judged.  I didn’t want anyone else to know the business of a life I was still trying to decide how to run. I needed my bad choices to fly under the radar until I could make better ones.  I kept it all under wraps and in the process became resourceful and resilient.  In my silent suffering I found my mettle. I cemented my self-worth. I proved to myself I belonged on this planet as an adult capable and deserving of being trusted to care for the humans I was blessed to have under my watch.  When I had a plan to clean up my act that I was confident I could defend and execute, that was the moment I asked for help.

Is my past behavior a predictor of future behaviors of my kids?  Probably not.  There isn’t any guarantee my kids are thinking exactly as I did, but I do know they watched my every move while they were growing up.  They know my methods and my ways.

And so I try not to jump in and turn down the flame when the pot looks like it’s about to boil over.  I remind myself it’s not my kitchen anymore.  They are writing the recipe for their lives with ingredients I wouldn’t necessarily choose for myself.  Some dishes will taste fantastic, others will go straight into the garbage.

They’ll do this generation’s version of change-rolling. They will have sleepless nights and do some occasional sobbing. They will question themselves. It will not be easy, and they will learn and grow. They will figure it out and ask for help when they are ready, when they can confidently defend their choices, and have a solid plan they know they can execute.