Is there ever a time, as a parent, when your kids are done needing you?
My children, one aged twenty, the other so close to eighteen, he’s planning his first alcoholic beverage during a family trip to the less strident European Union this summer, make it clear they do not need a mom.
Two weeks ago, my daughter’s college texted an alert to my phone. A tornado watch was in effect. The kids and I are in a weird, liminal space in which information intended for them still, on occasion, finds its way to my phone or email. My practice is to forward it along. As my mother-in-law says, not my circus, not my monkeys.
I took a screenshot of the alert, texted it to my daughter, and went back to Homicide: New York on Netflix. My daughter sent a stern reply, reminding me that she’s an adult, this was just a tornado watch, and that I should not be involved.
“Agreed,” I replied. “I trust you,” I said, “to know what to do.” Because that kid passed a class last semester called Cellular Processes. And while I think I know what that is, the words she used when describing her lectures were positively Dothrakian. I’m certain a passing grade in Cellular Processes is equivalent to successful tornadic avoidance.
Last week, my son had Advanced Placement social studies tests on back-to-back days. Both mornings, before he headed out for those exams, I told him he had nothing to lose, because I was already proud. “Mom,” he said, “I didn’t take these classes for you. I took them for me. Thank you, but this has nothing to do with you.” “I don’t think he realizes,” my husband said, “just how emotionally healthy that is.” True, and I agree with and support the sentiments of both my son and husband with the ferocity with which I believe in my daughter’s ability to avoid a tornado.
The kids don’t need me. And that’s fine. I’ve done my job – and have a backlog of books, television shows, and chores I’ve neglected in favor of two decades of homemade chocolate chip cookies, car lines, play dates, and trips to Elmwood Park Zoo. But more days than not, I’ll settle into a cup of tea, a book, a chore, Homicide: New York on Netflix – only to be interrupted by a kid who needs me.
Sometimes it’s the adulting tasks they’re unfamiliar with, like registering to vote, formatting a professional email, or car inspections. I turf that last one to their dad. I married him so I don’t have to handle car stuff. I’m way too pretty for that.
Sometimes, it’s just to tell me about their day. My daughter calls from college, filling me in on Dothraki cellular processes, tornados, and other occurrences of daily Floridian life. My son lopes in from work, school, Advanced Placement exams, telling me his theories on baldness as a predictor of teaching skills, relating to the residents at his work, or his dad’s love of stinky foods. I don’t turn away any of these conversations. And their conversations! While yes, sometimes I’m dying to know who was arrested for homicide in New York, I am all too aware that these conversations will dwindle, diminishing return-like, despite my attentions now.
Wow. I didn’t realize how sad that is until I just said it.
Eh. I’m sure Netflix can make it better.
Contact Wendi Rank on Instagram @wendirank
