One of the many things I loved about parenting when my kids were young and living with us was the opening up of new universes based on interests my kids developed. If they got involved in gymnastics--as my daughter did--it was up to us to get her to practices, cheer her on at meets and shuttle her to the orthopedist when the injuries occurred. But we also learned a whole lot about the world of competitive gymnastics. (Fortunately, this was well before the evils of sexual abuse at the elite level surfaced.) It was a fascinating world we never would have known about if our daughter hadn't had her heart set on the Olympics--a desire that faded when she turned thirteen and found she preferred the piano.
I thought back to those days when Paterfamilias (above) and I Metro-ed to Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington D.C. to rally for gun control. We were one of the 800,000. We believe fervently in the need to get military weapons off the streets, out of homes and far, far away from schools. But we also felt we were there on behalf of our grandkids--none of whom live in the Washington area.
They were equally--if not more--involved in the issue. They protested and gathered in their own cities with their friends. They didn't need us to show them the way, but we felt we were there for them--supporting them in a cause that effects them on a visceral and immediate level. #EnoughIsEnough.
Plus we got them tee shirts. That's also what grandparents do.
Two years ago, a friend's son advised his parents to stop skiing. As a doctor, he'd seen too many broken hips among his older patients; he didn't want his mom and dad to be among them. This year he wanted then to stop bicycling.
A number of our friends say their kids want them to buy new cars with lane-change warnings and other driving aids. Or they don't want their parents to take adventure vacations in less-trod parts of the world.
When we were living in our three-story house on a hill in suburbia, our son had a chat with us. "You guys ought to sell the house," he said, listing lots of positive reasons why we should dump the house where we raised him and his sister. Then in tones that hinted at the deeper core of his message he said, "Then there's the driveway." It's a long one, steep and curving. It's hard to shovel when it snows and treacherous when black ice pools on its lower rungs. He didn't want us to deal with its dangers anymore.
Our kids are not just coming up with reasonable suggestions, they are starting to "worry" about us--just as we worried about them when they were toddlers or fifth graders. Is there a tipping point when our kids become our advisers instead of us being theirs? We clearly do not yet need them to manage our finances or make decisions about our welfare--we're not old or fragile--but we sense the first tilt in the balance of care.
The shift is a subtle part of a continuum. We've gone from being parents who controlled their lives ("No, you may not put your finger in the electric socket.") to ones relegated to advisory. ("Have you checked with another insurance agent?) That's the role we play as they marry and have children of their own: Advisory parents but ready to leap to action if we sense danger, disaster or some other set back. That's what parenting grown children is all about: We sit in the back seat until there's a need or request to grab the wheel.
Now comes this tipping point. They mature, become heads of households, have careers and live multifaceted lives. We are aging as gracefully as we can, staying active but retiring from full-time jobs and unwinding careers. We can't quite keep up on the annual hike to the waterfall; we need a hand to get over some of the rocks. It seems in the nature of things that there would be a subtle switch in who the advisory adult is and who may have to take control if we face unexpected danger, disaster or a minor setback in our health or emotional well being. Should we be so surprised that they worry about us almost as much as we used to worry about them?
Even as we gamely send them selfies of ourselves forging ahead on the bike trail, our kids see us as growing frail. When Paterfamilias told his son a supposedly amusing story of how a pothole almost threw him off his bike, our son's face became a study in shock. We had to admit the story wasn't so funny as much as it was a recognition that we weren't the athletic and well balanced bikers we used to be. But we weren't--and aren't--ready to give up our bike rides. Our children (neither are doctors) aren't suggesting that, either--just that we buy hybrid style bikes that are easier to balance than our thin-wheeled road bikes.
We consider ourselves lucky that our children care enough to take notice. But it's a little like being offered a seat on a crowded bus: A relief to sit down but a shock at being seen as eligible for the offer.
