These Adult Kids

Every stage of raising kids is hard.

Infants, toddlers, terrible twos, threes, fours, and fives, sassy, spirited grade schoolers.

(Middle schoolers).

Teenagers with almost-grown adult-level problems.

Young adult kids are a whole different beast. They know even more of the world than teenagers, if it's even possible to know more than everything, but have usually learned enough tact to make you think they agree with you. Your experience, however wise and earned, though, is irrelevant. They are gonna go out and do life no matter what.

I am not sure when I first realized how truly unbearable I was as a young adult. I was kicked out by my parents at 22, not long after graduating college. I was not, shall we say, a good house guest, but in my defense I'd had very little parenting for at least 8 years at that point. My mom had struggled with severe anxiety and other mental health issues since I was 5, with a sorrowful amount of physical ailments on top. She was going through a lot after I graduated and just had no patience for an obnoxious young adult, related or not. So off I went into the very tough world of independence. It sucked, but I managed. Not well, of course, but I worked my ass off and kept myself alive, fed, and housed, and that was, I guess, enough. It made me tough, but I wish I'd been free to be softer.

I am not sure when I realized how differently I wanted to parent my young adults. Was it when one kid moved out during a pandemic to live in a friend's basement? When a grown kid had big problems at school and tried to manage it all on their own (really don't know where they got that from...)? When the ugly reality of managing chronic medical problems came crashing down on BOTH adult kids? I knew I had a choice - tough love, coddling, or unconditional love with a healthy dose of responsibility. I know what I got, and how I still bore the scars of abandonment. So I chose love and teaching. Weathering each wave of young adult chaos has been wildly unfun and occasionally terrifying. I'm sure my kids haven't enjoyed it, either, which is something I try to remind myself of at times of severe frustration when Aruba sounds like a nice place to live. Alone. 

The teaching part is easy - it's always easy to tell someone how they screwed up, how to handle it, what not to do next time. I have likely done more of that than needed as patterns - even damaging ones - are hard to break. The unconditional love part - the truly, completely unconditional love part - has been much harder. Not because I don't love them, or because they're terrible people (they're not, they're awesome, just human), but because I was never shown that unconditional love alongside the teaching. Mixing the two has felt awkward and clunky. But I plug on, hoping they get the point. The kid who moved out? I brought them groceries every week for months as they didn't have a car & couldn't get a job. Navigating cooking, cleaning, and dealing with a new family dynamic took care of the teaching part. The kid with serious college problems? I walked them through the steps, made them make phone calls and send emails, and facilitated getting help for what sent them spiraling. I often go to doctor appointments with both kids, if they want me there, as their history and needs are complex and neither likes doctors. 

I had thought that by this time I'd be "done" parenting. 

Ahahahahahaha!

It's OK, though. I love both watching them fly and helping them land when needed. I hope I can be there for them for a good long while. In between some Aruba vacations, of course.

From Then to Now

    My oldest son used to always walk ahead of us. Okay, not walk - run is more like it. He never looked back to see where I was, so I always had to keep my eyes on him. He was impetuous, funny, no sense of personal space. His vibrancy, smarts, and delight in chaos were exhausting but brought out the best in me. He had a few friends; playgroups were too stimulating and generally utter chaos. But he had eyes -- deep, see-through-you eyes that just begged for a connection.

    Lost a bit in all of the chaos was his twin sister. A quiet, happy little girl who preferred sitting and playing with just about anything to running around being loud. Fine hair, huge brown eyes, and the giggliest little laugh. She lived on the edge  of her brother's chaos,  avoiding flung toys, headlong tumbles, and his attempts to purloin whatever she had in her hand. At playdates it would take her a long time to warm up - and by then, it'd be time to go. 

    Yet she was happy almost all the time. The simplest things made her mouth drop open in awe - the moon, a bird in the yard, bubbles. Even on days where 90% of my attention and energy went to her brother, she'd float happily along doing her own thing - coloring, reading, cooking pretend meals for me and her stuffed animals. She and her brother played together, but she learned to retreat to her own space when she'd had enough. She also taught herself to read, and I think that was her joy. When life in our house got loud and crazy (as it still does), she could go in her room and lose herself in a story. 

    My oldest is still loud, and still seems to generate chaos wherever he goes. But he's more thoughtful now, and with that slowing down he became more confident and driven. He's smarter than even I thought he'd be, excels in school, and understands more about relationships than most teenagers.

   And his shy sister? She's outgoing, confident, and just as smart as her brother. And, most importantly, just as happy as she's always been. They are friends despite the dramatic personality differences. 

  There were times when they were little that I got lost in worry for their future - would he find a way to channel his energy? Would she ever come out of her shell? Would they be there for each other through the hard teen years and beyond? 

   As we navigate these tough teenage years, I know I can let go of those particular fears. I can see them both walking ahead of me now - together.

     

Such a Long Goodbye.

   My mom is dying.  Yes, I know we are all dying from the minute we're born.  This is different. She is actively dying.
She has dementia. She's a shell of who she used to be, but she's still in there.
   I see it when she focuses enough to notice things around her, like the kids playing pretend in front of her chair, or my daughter bringing her a glass of water. Or me crying on her shoulder because I miss her. She left so suddenly, it seems, like I never really knew that that last coherent conversation was happening. Oh, the things I would have told her if I'd known. I would have asked her so many things.
   My mom was never one to talk about the past. She had so many challenges in her life; I don't know if she was just too emotional to talk about them, or felt that no one should know. Her childhood, her years as a young adult, and even my early childhood just weren't mentioned very often. She rarely spoke of friends she'd had, experiences that shaped her life, or growing up. It confused me when I was younger because my mom was such a vibrant, strong person.        As an adult, especially when I experienced some very rough things myself, I began to think that maybe she wasn't as strong as she wanted me to think.  
She almost never cried in front of me. I'm not sure whether that was a good thing or not.

Thank you, Al.

   I learned tonight to be immensely grateful to man named Al.  When my mother was three, back in 1941, her father was killed on a merchant marine ship during WWII. To make ends meet with him gone and three girls at home, my grandmother had taken in boarders, as was common in those days.  After her husband died, she met Al Vitteri, and he moved in as what would eventually be a common-law husband. He became the father my mother never had.  He taught her how to fix things, took her to baseball games, and took care of her.  My mother's older sisters didn't care to do things with him, but my mom loved him.
   So why am I thanking him now? He died 5 years before I was even born. I am thanking him now because until tonight, I never knew he even existed. I have spent most of the last near-40 years thinking my mom was was without a dad from her youngest days.  It broke my heart to think of her like that. I suppose I could be annoyed or upset or dumbfounded as to why my mother never even mentioned his name. That would seem to be a logical response. But my first emotion, the one that brings tears to my eyes as I write, is gratitude.  Gratitude that he was there to take care of my mom, to be her guide and her father at a time she truly needed one. Relief that the awful childhood I had pictured had not been her reality. 
   What prompted her to open up about this after decades of never speaking about him was a recollection of a restaurant that he used to take her to. My nephew just got a job there, and although it has changed names many times, it is still in the same spot in my mother's hometown. The memory of him taking her there for Cokes and walking home with him came out so naturally I almost missed it. Almost. I stopped her briefly and said, "Who's Al?"  She said of course she never mentioned him, it hurt too much. And then, with little prompting, came the whole story. Ending with how badly it hurt to lose him suddenly right after her first son - my oldest brother - was born. And how she kept it inside because it hurt so much.
   All this talk of emotion from my mother was nothing less than amazing to me. She has spent her life repressing her feelings, and emotions came up very rarely in our conversations. I felt like I was looking back in time with her though a window that I might never have had a chance to see, and it was a privilege to be there with her.
   So - thank you, Al.  For being the grandfather I never knew I had. For being there for the little girl that became the wonderful mom I have. Thank you.

An Open Letter

To the family of the 6 month old I did CPR on 19 years ago:

   I want you to know that I remember your son. I remember his wispy blond hair, what little there was on his soft head. I remember his tiny body, helpless and still. I remember the frantic efforts of the paramedics and my crew to reverse what we knew was irreversible. He had been down too long and was already gone. But we wanted so badly for that not to be true.
   I am sorry I did not cry for your son then. I was wounded, horrified, and struck by sadness. But I never cried. I wondered why I didn't. I felt like I should but it didn't come.
Up until tonight I never shed a tear for him. I have thought of him, and you, hundreds of times since then. Even after my own children were born I would think of him with sorrow, but a blank sorrow. I am sorry that it has taken me this long to fully share your grief. My heart aches for you and what you lost, and I can only say that in 20 years he has never left my memory, and my heart ached with every thought I had of him.
   I never met you, never knew your names, but I hope you know you are not alone.....even after all this time.