Blogger Sally Torbey writes about "5 to 7,"a film she describes as being about "how to love an adult son who is making some questionable decisions that are hard to accept." For most viewers the film is about a young man's romance with an older woman who, being married with children, can only see him for two hours a day--from 5 to 7. Here's her key point for those of us who are parents of adult children:
"We had the pleasure of hearing the writer and director of the film, Victor Levine, speak about the film after the screening. I loved learning that the funny quirkiness of Glenn Close's character [the mother of the adult son] is partly based on his own mother's antics. I want to channel her character's inspiring ability to cast aside her preconceived notions as to how her son should lead his life, and embrace the woman he loves and who loves him, despite the initial shock and ongoing concerns of the circumstances of their relationship and the potential downsides of this romantic liaison. Although her character is critical of her son's desire to be a writer and nags him to attend law school instead, she is unconditionally supportive of him when he falls in love, even though I suspect her "mom radar" detects that this might not end well for him. Glenn Close's character motivates me to judge and lecture less, and appreciate the directions our children's lives might take them, and perhaps remember that being their parent and a part of their lives is more of a privilege than ever."
One of the by-laws of parenting adult children is to take our sticky hands off the steering wheel. We're practitioners of the art of detachment parenting now.
But there are times when we can mess around in some of the quotidian parts of their lives and do it in a way that is so subtle it doesn't churn the family waters. That's what my friend Lily did when her daughter (an assertive banker stationed in Hong Kong) let an unfortunate situation develop with the education of her son, Lily's Grand.
Here's Lily's tale, as she told it to me:
"My daughter got a wonderful promotion--she was transferred to Hong Kong and put in charge of Southeast Asia for her bank. Even before she got to Hong Kong, she found a good private school for her son who was starting first grade.
On the first day of classes, she went to the school to pick him up. She looked at the math paper he had in his hand and saw it was stuff he already knew. My daughter can be somewhat abrupt. She went right up to the teacher and said, "He's working at a much higher level than this. I hope you're going to do something about it!"
Since then, the notes from the teacher have been curt and formal. The teacher uses only her formal name, never her informal one and that is a sign that she doesn't like the family.
When I went to visit my daughter and her family this winter, I decided I would go to the school and spend a few hours there. I thought I could show them that not everyone in the family is curt, that we're friendly people. I observed a lot of the lessons. I told the teacher how I was a teacher before I retired and how impressed I was with how she handled her classroom. Five hours later I headed back to my daughter's home. All my daughter knew was that I went to school to observe. I shared my observations with her--nothing more.
I think I made a difference. A few days later, a note came from my grandson's teacher and it was signed with her informal name.
Taking on a role in a grownchild''s relationship with a child's teacher can be a minefield. Trying to undo a situation that your grown child inadvertently created can cause deep resentment on the part of the grownchild. It's none of our business what their relationship is with the school and the teacher. And yet it is in that we care deeply. We want our grandchild to settle in happily and peaceably and be a joyous learner.
There's a fine line here. It's not as though Lily went to the school and apologized to the teacher for her daughter's abruptness. She didn't say, "That's how she is" or anything like that. She just showed a friendlier flag and let that work its way through the system.
It's a new phrase for me: Detachment Parenting. It means, as I interpret it, letting go, or making our way from controlling to advisory parent. One goal, psychologist Carl Pickhardt suggests, is to do it without showing any disappointment over how our child is turning out. That is, whether they're living up to our expectations for them.
As Pickhardt noted in a column in Psychology Today on the subject, we expect a return on our parenting investment--on the sacrifices we've made for our children as they grew from infants to school kids to post-adolescents. A marker of the ROI is how they "turn out." If our son or daughter "turns out" to be happy, healthy, and hard working, we're likely to feel we've gotten our "sacrifice's" worth. We may also tell ourselves that this came to be because of what effective--great--parents we've been.
But what if they hit their twenties--emerging adulthood years--and they're still struggling, or as Pickhardt describes the tumult of the young adult years, "to settle oneself down, to discipline freedom with purpose, to find a job with a future, to form a committed life partnership." What if they're still groping for direction or their personal definition for goals or lifestyle doesn’t live up to our expectations, hopes or ambitions for them?
We may feel let down, disappointed and frustrated. The risk at this stage of detachment parenting, Pickhardt says, is to go negative, to say things like, “Why can’t you get your life together?” or “We didn’t raise you to flounder with your life!”
Pickhardt's point is to avoid equating how our young adult “turns out” with how well we've done our job as parents."One of the hardest tasks, he says, is to "let any remaining vestiges of this false equation go so the young person feels free to pursue her or his individual and independent way unburdened by parental performance needs."
There's a "Gestalt Prayer” by Fritz Perls in his book, “Gestalt Therapy Verbatim,” that Pickhardt quotes to end his column. I'll end my post with the same sentiment--so hard to accept but part of being the parent of an adult child:
“I do my thing and you do your thing.
I am not in this world to live up to your expectations,
And you are not in this world to live up to mine.
You are you, and I am I,
And if by chance we find each other, it’s beautiful.
In her National Book Award winning novel, Charming Billy, Alice McDermott tells a poignant tale of an Irish family and how a well-intentioned lie goes awry--a lie told to Charming Billy by his best friend. The book has nothing to do with the role of parents and their grown children, but that doesn't mean McDermott doesn't have insights on that relationship.
In this scene, the young married daughter, who has flown from the west coast to New York for Charming Billy's funeral, is staying with her dad, Billy's best friend, in the family home. It is early morning on an early spring day--the day after the funeral--and they are heading outdoors to sit on chairs on the front lawn and have a morning cup of tea together:
"She sipped from the cup. The breeze that had woken him had grown weaker in the sun, but something of the cold dawn still lingered. One did not dare say to a grown daughter, a married woman with children of her own, Are you warm enough? Do you need a sweater? Wouldn't you rather wear shoes?
He said, "You'll have to give the in-laws a call while you're here."
A kernal of self-control wisdom from Alice.
Later in the novel, Billy's sister rants about the life and role of women in a big and loving--but tradition-bound--Irish family. Addressing Billy's best friend's daughter--the one who has flown in from the west coast to spend time with her dad and the family--the older woman adds this:
"I'm sure [your dad is] glad you came in. And tomorrow you'll go out to the Island with him? Good. Your husband will manage fine, don't worry about that. All young mothers think their kids can't survive without them, don't they? Didn't you? Soon enough you'll see. Next thing you know, they're all grown up and gone from home--isn't it the truth. Next thing you know, your house is empty again. Look at us...[names her four siblings] how many kids altogether? Fifteen, good Lord, sixteen, sixteen kids altogether and not one of them left at home, right? Thank God for that, but see what I'm saying, see how fast it goes?"
It didn't seem to go fast when our children were young and we were in the parenting maelstrom. But looking back from the now-empty nest, how fugit the tempus.
"What a b---- he turned out to be." The b---- my friend Cate is talking about is her first-born, 25-year-old son. He got his MBA last June and finally landed a career job this fall. But when Cate and the proud papa emailed him with a request to stop by to see him at his office--they would be in the neighborhood--he sent this email: "I appreciate the gesture, but i think it's time for you to stop visiting me at my workplace."
A few months ago, when he had been a summer intern at a high profile government agency, she had asked to stop by--she wanted to see what the department looked like inside. "All I got to see was the lobby and the cafeteria, where I bought him lunch." Now she was feeling put out about not being welcome in his latest workplace--or this latest phase of his life.
"It's part of growing up," I tell her, "He's setting adult boundaries."
"He's pushing us away," she says.
Comes to the same thing, no? Helicopter parenting has a sell-by date. Our kids are no longer singing in the chorus of the school play or playing for the local soccer team. When it comes to their career, there's no seat in the cheerleading section for us.
Not that I don't sympathize with Cate. It's hard to let go of that desire to experience up close and personally the bits and pieces of our grown kids' lives--the way we did when they were little kids and living under our roof. Our very own Uber son dis-invited us to his adult soccer league games. There were some hurt feelings on the parental side, but the only ones watching the game are a handful of girlfriends and wives. Having mummy or daddy there would probably make him feel, well, like a little boy. An office workplace has even higher stakes.
No one said letting go was easy. It's hard sometimes for us to believe there are boundaries between us and our children. But there are and should be. At least Cate's son was polite about laying down his mark.
Child rearing's goal is simple: Our once-dependent infants are weaned and otherwise taught to stand on their own feet. We can pat ourselves on the back if our kids are launched into the world as independent adults. Oh they can still call home to whine if things aren't going well. Parents are a safe place and wise head. So long as they don't look to us to take over and solve their problems, they're independent. Congratulations.
But it's not easy to feel good about it. At least not at first. In his web page on adolescence, psychologist Carl Pickhardt addresses some of the emotional trials parents face as their adolescent kids move into and through what he calls "trailing independence"--an age range he pegs at 18 to 23. Specifically he writes about why we feel sadness when the kids move out and on and operate independently of parents, family, and home. "This is the last letting go in the process of Detachment Parenting of adolescents," he writes, "and it can feel very hard to do – forsaking the old management role, the sense of purpose, the accustomed authority, and the daily association."
He writes that "the last battle between holding on and letting go is not just between parent and adolescent, but agonizingly unfolds within the parents themselves. For a while the empty nest can result in the empty parent."
Pickhardt points to three D's of pain -- why we feel a loss rather than joy when our kids successfully launch.
--First, we're Dethroned. We've lost ruling influence over decisions our kids make.
--Second, we are at more of a Distance. Socially and geographically our kids are moving away as they focus --appropriately-- on building a new life.
--Third, we are Demoted. Our kids are creating a new system of relationships that they give a higher immediate priority than attending to us.
Here's Pickhardt's killer app--as in adaptation--to the three Ds:
"What is extremely important for parents to understand about the dethronement, distance, and demotion ...is that this change does NOT mean they are less loved; they are only less necessary."
"To a degree," he continues, "the return for their self-sacrificial investment in parenting an adolescent to independence is this sweet sadness of success, just as once upon a long time ago the little girl or boy’s entry into adolescence caused parents to give up the precious childhood time together they would never have again. The great hardship of Detachment Parenting is enduring loss from letting go."
Or as my friend Dick put it: "My kids are independent. Damn it."
A friend's frustration at her son's job search boiled over one day. He had graduated from college six months ago--good grades, outstanding language skills--but still had no interview nibbles. She had been pushing him to apply for this, apply for that--even called friends for leads. He didn't seem to appreciate her "helicopter" style help. Nor had it produced anything. "I wish," she said, "I could just pay someone to hire him for the year."
That was three years ago, in the heat of the Great Recession. (As this NextAve story suggests, others wanted to go or went further than my friend's wishful thinking.) Are things better in the job market now? Are we better at keeping our distance? Do our kids want our help or not?
A recent survey by Adecco suggests that job-hunt-wise, things are looking up: 65 percent of employed youths (18-24) found jobs within six months; of those unemployed and still looking, only 6 percent said the search had been going on for a year or more. That's progress.
As to whether they want our help (helicopter-style or otherwise), 62 percent say they keep their parents at arms length during the job search. The 38 percent who do welcome a little help from home want us to use our network to find them job opportunities. Also on the list of the kinds of help they like from their parents: rehearsing them for interviews (12 percent) and checking over their resumes (9 percent). There were even a few--4 percent--who wanted their parents to go to their job interviews with them, but to wait outside. One can only wonder at the job prospects of job applicants (1 percent) who want their parents to be part of the live interview.
On her blog Grown and Flown, Lisa Heffernan looks at some of the same stats and comes up with an 8-point list of "acceptable" things a parent can do to help a child during this first big job search--things like proofreading resumes and correspondence, brainstorming, researching opportunities and passing on to them connections they might use.
As for my friend's son, a neighbor and friend finally produced a lead for a one-year contract for a data-entry job. He got the job (in the neighbor's agency) and performed so well that the contract was extended and his duties expanded, until he eventually left for graduate school. Job well done--by both of them.
This is not the first time I've shared one of Carl Pickhardt's insights on parenting adolescents. Many of his points apply to parenting emerging adults--those just out of their teens but not quite into full-blown adulthood. But his recent newsletter's point applies to all: When it comes to parenting adolescent or adult children, lighten up. "Parenting is too serious to take every frustration seriously," he writes, "because when parents do that they are likely to overreact and make minor matters worse."
Pickhardt makes his point through an anecdote that shows how the parent (a father) was able to lighten up enough to keep from losing his temper over a test that pitted his request for action (a variation on clean up your room) versus the son's persistent postponement of doing anything about it. When our children are adolescents living under our roof, these kinds of issues come up all the time. But even when they are "emancipated," we can come up against a test of wills, an unwillingness to take our "suggestions" seriously or stop behaving in a way we deem inappropriate. At such times, the light touch is even more important: we're no longer the boss.
Here's a link to Pickhardt's newsletter and for those who don't want to go there, a recounting of the anecdote and a quickie synopsis of Pickhardt's analysis of what was going on here.
The anecdote: "My fifteen-year-old just took a shower and there they are where he always leaves them: wet towels all over the bathroom floor. ‘Would you please hang up the towels,’ I ask? ‘Sure,’ he cheerfully replies. And I wait for what I know is coming next: ‘In a minute.’
“I mean it’s not like I haven’t been through this torment before—like about a million times. So I wait an hour to check the bathroom, and everything’s okay. No one has disturbed the towels. They’re resting nicely and probably so is he. So I poke my head into his room and remind him: ‘The towels. You said you’d pick up the towels.’
“He looks at me and shakes his head like he was the long suffering parent and I was the troublesome child. ‘I wish you’d make up your mind,’ he says. ‘I’m doing my homework. You’re always after me to do my homework. Can I do my homework without being interrupted?’
“Don’t ask me how he does it, but now I’m feeling on the defensive. ‘After you finish your homework you’ll pick them up?’ He just shakes his head like I’m some kind of defective and he doesn’t know how he puts up with me. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes. Now can I get back to work?’ I feel like I’m imposing, so I leave.
“Two hours later the towels (remember the towels?) are still where he dropped them and I find him watching TV. Now I have him dead to rights. This is indefensible, so I say: ‘If you have time to watch TV, you have time to pick up the towels.’ This is when he gives me this pained look: ‘Once a week, is that asking too much? Once a week I get to see my favorite program. The only one I care to watch. I’ve done my homework like you wanted. Now, can I watch my program? As soon as it’s over, I’ll get the towels.’ Well, he did get his homework done. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘But right after it’s over, the towels. No more excuses.’ He nods agreement and impatiently dismisses me with a long suffering wave of his hand.
“An hour and a half later I can’t believe it. The towels haven’t been touched. I storm off to his room. His light is out. ‘The towels!’ I yell into the dark. ‘What? What’s the matter?” a groggy voice asks as though I’d woken him up? But I stand my ground. ‘The towels,’ I repeat. Silence. ‘You woke me up to talk about towels?’ he asks, implying that if there is something wrong, it’s certainly not with him. ‘You’re always after me to get in bed on time. To get enough rest. And now you wake me up for this? For towels? Can’t I get them in the morning?’ I’m tired too. ‘You promise?’ I ask. ‘I promise,’ he says. ‘Now can I get some sleep?’
“Next morning, there he is about to leave for school when I notice the towels from last night have been joined by more towels from today’s shower. That’s when I lose it. I scream as though I’d been betrayed, which is how I feel: ‘Your promise! What about your promise?’
“You should have seen the look of utter disbelief on his face. ‘You want me to miss the bus? You want me to be late for school? For towels? Which is more important: towels or school?’ Fortunately, for once in my life I made the right decision: ‘School? The heck with school! FIRST, YOU PICK UP THOSE TOWELS!’”
So according to the long-suffering father described above, the young man did finally retrieve the towels, except for the sodden one either overlooked or subversively left underneath the bathroom sink, perhaps as a reminder that the Game was still on.
“Five out of six is not a bad average” the dad smilingly concluded. Then, feeling delayed but apparently not defeated, he laughed: “Back to work!” He was resolved to pursue picking up the one remaining towel as the ongoing battle for and against timely compliance continued to run its seemingly eternal course.
The father who told Pickhardt the story was, Pickhardt says, "really [telling] a story on himself—laughing at his predicament and his own reactions, grudgingly admiring his son’s spirit of opposition. Not taking the problem personally, he used humor to create perspective..."
Do the towels apply to our insistence on being called or notified about events in our adult (or emerging adult) children's lives, or their promises to visit or, if they've moved back home, doing the chores we've asked them to do as part of the bargain of living under our roof again? Personally, whenever I feel a nag coming on, I'm going to think "towels!"
A few posts ago, I wrote about a young woman who found her mother-in-law "too nice." The issue, as Carolyn Hax pointed out in her column, was whether the 'niceness" was a cover for manipulative, over-protective and intrusive behavior. Helicoptering carried to its highest level: an inability to let go.
Hax, in her column-writing wisdom, suggested the young woman read Gavin De Becker's The Gift of Fear--to better understand her mother-in-law and deal with the manipulation problem.
Don't know if the daughter-in-law read it, but I did--not to fend off a persistently meddlesome parent but to see if I saw myself in De Becker's descriptions of the controlling parent, sibling, or in-law who can't let go.
Of course I did not find myself there. Who would connect with the difficult --almost "call the cops"--personalities De Becker describes in his chapter, "Persistence, Persistence." That said, based on his chapter, here are some of the warning signs of overly-persistant personalities who can't take lift their finger off the control button.
--refusing to hear 'no'--that is, perceiving "maybe" as "definitely."
--projecting onto others committments that were not expressed and are not present--or are unwanted.
--demanding attention. or put another way, refusing to be ignored and using guilt, harrassment or insults to make sure attention is paid.
--insisting on constant communication despite requests to back off.
--exhibiting an extraordinary sense of entitlement
If you ever had to deal with someone like this, De Becker's book can help you figure out a strategy for making the relationship less painful--or at least give you some control over it, which is where Carolyn Hax' was sending her reader.
Sigh. The time is nigh. High schools graduates--the adolescents we put up with lo these many high school years--are now college freshman. That means they're Emerging Adults and more to the point, they are moving out from under our roof--and our control. They are taking a giant step toward independence from us. Which means they're leaving us behind.
That's what Michael Gerson writes about in a Washington Post column. He share his insights into the parental mind (his) and reminds us of some comments from professionals.
Here's some of what he has to say about the trauma he experienced and reminiscences his mind traveled on the day he dropped off his oldest son at college:
....Eighteen years is not enough. A crib is bought. Christmas trees get
picked out. There is the park and lullabies and a little help with
homework. The days pass uncounted, until they end. The adjustment is
traumatic. My son is on the quiet side — observant, thoughtful, a
practitioner of companionable silence. I’m learning how empty the quiet
can be.
I know this is hard on him as well. He will be homesick,
as I was (intensely) as a freshman. An education expert once told me
that among the greatest fears of college students is they won’t have a
room at home to return to. They want to keep a beachhead in their former
life.
But with due respect to my son’s feelings, I have the
worse of it. I know something he doesn’t — not quite a secret, but
incomprehensible to the young. He is experiencing the adjustments that
come with beginnings. His life is starting for real. I have begun the
long letting go. Put another way: He has a wonderful future in which my
part naturally diminishes. I have no possible future that is better
without him close....
...The end of childhood, of course, can be the start of adult relationships
between parents and children that are rewarding in their own way. I’m
anxious to befriend my grown sons. But that hasn’t stopped the random,
useless tears. I was cautioned by a high-powered Washington foreign
policy expert that he had been emotionally debilitated for weeks after
dropping off his daughter at college for the first time. So I feel
entitled to a period of brooding.
![Generation Fabulous](<a href="http://generationfabulous.com/" target="_blank" ><img src="http://generationfabulous.com/buttons/genfab-btn-150x150-v3.png" alt="" /></a>arget=%22_blank%22%20%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://generationfabulous.com/buttons/genfab-btn-150x150-v3.png%22%20alt=%22%22%20/%3E%3C/a){kind=link}