Parenting Grown Children: What Dr. Spock Forgot to Tell Us

Re-Nesting:The rules when a Boomerang kid moves back home

After her 37-year-old (and single) daughter lost her job, a friend had a new roomer for six months. No surprise there: A 2009 survey by the Pew Research Center reports that 13 percent of parents with grown children say one of their adult kids has moved back home in the past year--much of that thanks to tough economic times. Before this mom's out-of-work daughter moved in, though, the mother set some rules. No, they weren't about who would wash the dishes or whether rent would be paid. Instead, the mom emailed me the following dictum she asked her daughter to abide by: "You will not talk to me about what I eat or what I wear (my hot buttons) and in return I will not ask you where you are going and when you’ll be back. I will not expect you to show up for dinner (a good thing, as I don’t cook)."

The simple rules worked well on both sides. The daughter kept her side of the bargain and more: Even though she wasn't expected to, she usually called to let her mother know where she was and when she would be back. As for the mom, she once asked her daughter who it was she was talking to on the phone. "I  was told, 'None of your business.' I have never done that again!"

At the end of the "visit," both mother and daughter agreed that living together again had been really hard but that the understanding of what the ground rules were helped.

A lot of articles I read on the subject of re-nesting--of boomerang children moving back home after living independently--list a host of rules to follow: set clear expectations regarding expenses and household chores; set a time limit; charge rent. And key to it all: Write it all out in an agreement. This is good, solid advice. Practical. Sound. But, frankly, if one of my children were moving back home, I can't see myself doing it. There would be so much emotional overload and this would just add to it. It makes more sense to put your finger on the hot buttons--we all know what ours and our children's are, or at least we should--and make an agreement to steer clear of them.  Not stepping on each others toes is never easy. But at least spelling out what it is you would find most difficult for a long or short co-habitation is a start. And it probably has very little to do with how much rent they will or will not pay--unless money is one of the hot buttons. 

 

 

 

Grandparenting: "What I love about babysitting."

It's a given: we love our grandchildren. But some of us love babysitting for them more than others do. A college friend--someone I hadn't heard from since we lived in the same dormitory at school--called to see if I was coming to the class reunion. She had a long list of Simmons graduates she was calling to recruit to come to Boston in June. It was so nice to reconnect, and while we got reacquainted on the phone, she mentioned her four grandchildren and how much she loved babysitting for them at her son's house. She did it once a week despite running her own small business and living a busy life. "It's the highlight of my life," she said. "It's the best thing I do." She mentioned this highlight several times, so of course I had to ask her: what it is about babysitting that turns her on? What she told me was unexpected and touching:

"I hated being a mother, and I like the way I am with my grandchildren. I am all the things I was not as a mother. I am patient. I am kind. I don't yell."

Maybe that's what we love about being with our children's children: the chance to be a kinder, gentler us.

Grandparenting: A special something we offer our grown and grandchildren

The importance of being a grandparent: We don't just pass down family history and those fun stories about what life was like when we were young. We aren't there just to splurge on special gifts and indulge our grandkids in loving kindnesses. We are also a calming influence on the family. At least that's what brain scientists suggest.

In Barbara Strauch's The Secret Life of the Grown-Up Brain, recent studies by brain researchers have found scientific grounding for what's known as the "Grandmother Hypothesis." That is, humans and primates that had helpful, living grandmothers in their group live longer.

Part of their premise is that, as we get older, the amygdala part of our brain reacts less and less to negative things--unlike the way it reacted when we were younger. This may sound counter intuitive. After all, we as a generation--that is, as "older" people--have a reputation for being grouchy. Sometimes we are--the body as it ages can give us enough pain to make us whine and, given natural losses of friends and some functions, we may get lonely. But overall, our brains tend to bring us to the sunnier side. Here's what one researcher says about our "positivity effect:"

"...As we age we become much more aware that we have less time left in life--and it therefore becomes much more important for us to maintain emotional stability. One way to keep on an even keel is to steer clear of the bad and focus on the good. And, though we're not aware of it, we manipulate both our attention and our memory to suit that goal."

And voila: that makes us super-helpful to our families. "Grandmothers with a sunnier outlook," the brain scientists say, "give their families a greater ability to thrive and survive." Grandpops, too.

Who knew?

 

Visiting Privileges: The parental instinct rises

We hear the car pull up just as the 11:00 nightly news draws to a close. Uber son and his family have arrived: they've come home for a long weekend visit. Our voices are hushed as we hustle out to the car. The two-year-old is bundled from car seat to a big bed inside. The "big" kids (they are 7 and 9) are bleary eyed but ready for a snack and a look around. But they too are soon dispatched to bed as are parents and grandparents.

The morning sounds wake us earlier than we're used to: little feet running around the house; hushed yips of excitement as secret passages are revisited and closets explored. Cereal is poured into bowls. Bread is toasted. Attempts to play the piano are curtailed until "everyone" is awake. A house comes alive when there are grandchildren in it.

So does our weekend. Where we usually scramble around looking for something interesting to do and friends to see, Saturday and Sunday are now a mad jumble of museum visits, walks in the woods, football catches on the street--lucky us, we live on a dead end--and greetings by a neighbor's big, friendly dog. And endless trips to the supermarket. It is amazing how quickly we go through a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, a carton of eggs. And amazing, too, how fast we--Paterfamilias and I--are absorbed into the rhythm of a young family's life: the upcoming piano recital, soccer game, play date, art class, school play. It is as though we lived in close proximity instead of in a city that's a 7-hour drive away, that we always knew in minute detail what was going on with our Grands, and that they were always an up-close and personal part of our day-to-day lives.

Then comes this reminder. It is late afternoon on Sunday. Uber son and his son are down in the street passing the football back and forth, running imaginary screens and plays. PF is too tired by now to join in. One Grand is playing the piano; another asking for a snack when our grandson bangs on the door with a frantic rap. He is yelling and crying: "Dad is hurt. Dad is hurt. Come quick." Out of the house flies my daughter-in-law. PF gets in the car and drives down the hill in case transportation is needed. I stay behind with two of the Grands to keep some semblance of calm and reassurance that all will be well. We can see from the window that their dad--my son--is sitting on a curb, hunched over in pain. Then we see him helped into PF's car and driven back up the hill to our house and helped inside. His face is devoid of color; he is shaken by pain. He needs to lie down. He wants his wife--not his mom, not his dad--to stay by his side. He thinks he may have broken his ankle.

I call an Urgent care clinic: they can see him if he's there within an hour, at which time they close for the day. Everyone wants to go with him. He wants his wife. His son, frantic that he somehow caused the accident, insists on going. It falls to PF and I to do the really hard part: Keep up the spirits and quell the fears of the two children left behind. We talk about where dad is going, why they can't go, too and then we find a box of Shrinky Dinks for the 7-year-old. She is taken up with that. We read a story to the two year old. And then we find a DVD of the Muppet Show. No one is watching exactly but it is a surprising comfort for all of us to hear the familiar chortle of Kermit the Frog and the high pitch of Miss Piggy's complaints.

The phone finally rings. It is Uber son. Sounding strong and less pained. We put him on the speaker phone. He tells us he'll be seen next at the clinic and is hopeful that the ankle is not broken. The pain is subsiding.  Fifteen minutes later the phone rings again: A voice with a very foreign accent asks, "Are you next of kin to....?" In the mini second it takes between the question and our son's laughing prank-voice, a quick-as-blink thought runs through my head: The voice is asking for parental permission for X-Rays to be taken.

How weird and without logic is that? And yet, it is a reminder to me of how deeply go those maternal roots and the role we played in our children's lives,even though those roles have been supplanted--and appropriately so--by others.

Money Matters: Sharing the wealth in a rational way

She's a doctor; he's a lawyer. They've both done very well--financially and otherwise. Their only child--a son--has taken a different road. He's living his dream career: he's a firefighter, studying to be an emergency medical technician.

I've never heard the parents complain about his life choice--except when their son was called up during the war in Iraq. Since they've got more money then they need to live on--and to finance retirement--they've been giving their son a portion of his inheritance every year--the maximum they can give without incurring tax penalties under gift tax laws. Currently, that's $12,000 from her; $12,000 from him. 

"He relies on that $24,000. He factors it into his budget," she says. They don't give it to him in one lump sum at any particular time. They send checks and he keeps tabs on what's come in. And when he needs money for something--he lives on a farm and recently wanted money to build a small auxiliary barn--he can call up and tell his parents what he wants or needs and why he'd like an advance.

Apart from the requests, do they keep an eye on how he's using the money. Not really but sort of. "I wouldn't want him to use it for something frivolous--in his case, another antique gun for his collection. But he pretty much spends it on legitimate living expenses."

Her point is not to approve or disapprove of his spending. Rather, she wants him to know how much he can depend on so he can plan and budget for it. She'd rather do it that way then just send the odd gift here and there--as many of us do. This lets him make rational decisions about his personal budget. And it gives the parents the pleasure of knowing they're providing a cushion that let's him pursue the livelihood that makes him happy--regardless of how much it pays.

 

Grandparenting: Dinner table taboos

What is it about table manners? A lot of grandparents flip out over the way small children eat their food. I'm not talking about food fights, but about eating food with fingers or whining about the food they're served or just messing with the food on their plate. Or, even more annoying, having to prepare special meals for each little person.

A friend whose daughter, son-in-law and three small children came to live with her for a year (the daughter was awarded a special internship in her parent's hometown; the son-in-law telecommuted), says the biggest tension was at the dinner table:

"My husband was very impatient with the kids at meal time. He just couldn’t deal with the noise, the picky eating. He didn't like that the kids were not doing what their parents told them to. He would lose his temper. He should have had more sense than to do that. The parents are right there. When parents are there, they are in charge. He didn’t need to be stepping in. My daughter would say, "Dad, I’m handling this." But it made her mad.

"I had my issues, too. Our generation did not cater to our kids' eating preferences the way this generation does. When my daughter's family was living with us, I would go in to prepare a meal and feel like a short-order cook. I didn’t like it, but I did what I had to do. And I didn’t say anything about it. But it was annoying."

It's one thing to watch how meal times play out when we're visiting our children's families in their homes. If there's a mess, it's their mess. If there are special requests, they're used to it. It seems to be quite another matter when it's our house. Maybe it's the feeling that aliens have invaded our space. Or we feel like we ought to be in charge--but we're not.

 

Visiting Privileges: Making the trek to a cold clime

"Remember those news clips of the Beatles landing in the US in '64--the crowds going crazy, jumping up and down?" This is the question Alpha Daughter poses to Paterfamilias. It is also her report on the reception I received when I arrived in Berlin a few weeks ago to visit her and her family. My Grand--her 8-year-old daughter--was jumping up and down and shouting cheers of welcome when I was spotted coming into the international baggage claim area--separated from the waiting crowd by a huge glass wall.

There's April in Paris (chestnuts in blossom), and then there's February in Berlin (Lindens without leaves). It may not have the same zing to it, but I'll take Berlin. When your grown child and her family live in a city far from you--even if it's only for a year--that city can be infused with warmth and joy. It wasn't just the immediate reception. It lasted throughout the week-long visit. The pleasure of the visit was blending into their day to day lives--meeting Frau Shroeder [my Grand's teacher], taking my Grandpup and Grand for walks around Lake Schlachtensee to feed the ducks, riding the S-Bahn train through the Grunewald forest, having coffee at a cafe in Zohlendorf, meeting my daughter's friends and colleagues. One day we were a little more ambitious and tried to see the Collection of Classical Antiquities at the Pergamon Museum, but the line was so long on a Saturday afternoon--even though this is not tourist season--that we had to give up on it.

And then the week was up, and it was time to go home. Berlin may be gray and chilly in February but I remember it for the warm tug of being pulled into the life of my grown child and her family. I don't think I've ever felt quite so wanted--and appreciated for making the trek. Grown children are independent adults leading lives on their own course. But sometimes they need us.