Hello, parents of adult children. How you doing? Things are so much easier now than when your kids were little, right?
Yeah, I know. Kind of yes, but also very much no. Things are easier because you’re not constantly fixing snacks and breaking up fights and soothing them through night terrors. But they’re also so harder because . . . well, if you know, you know.
It’s easier because your children are adults, and they make their own choices, and they don’t depend on you for every little thing. It’s also harder because your children are adults, and they make their own choices, and you don’t always get to pick which things they depend on you for.
They’re big and they have cars and bank accounts and relationships and politics and worldviews of their own, but also they are still your children, and they are still, in some ways, what you made them to be. It’s still personal. It will always be personal.
This is not going to be a ‘parenting as death march’ essay where I lament over the unceasing agony of it all, or where I beamoan the lives my older kids are living, and then tell you how I’m managing to soldier on in spite of the pain.
Actually, I think my adult kids are neat. Wonderful, even. Like every human being I know, all of them are struggling with various things, but all of them are also succeeding in various ways, and I’m proud of them all, and I like being with them.
They’re good people, and interesting beyond words. And yes, it’s a relief that they can all pour their own dang milk! Sometimes they even run to the store to get milk for me.
Sometimes I think about how, when my husband and I first became parents, we were still more or less kids ourselves. We had a lot of growing up to do, and that meant our parenting was sorely lacking in many ways. Then I think about how that’s still true.
Now firmly middle-aged, with seven kids who have reached adulthood, we’re still growing up. Knowing that makes it much easier to be at peace with our undeniable flaws, because now I know that when growing and learning ends, that is death.
In life, all human processes are in flux. Nothing that matters is static. Learning, love, trust, dependence, guilt, pride, memory, attachment, you name it, all of these states of being are constantly shifting, developing, waxing and waning, transforming. This is normal, and isn’t supposed to have an expiration date of 18 years.
I know this because my relationship with my parents is still a work in progress, and they are both quite dead. I’m still learning new things about them, some that make me furious, some that make me groan with pity. I’m revisiting what I already knew, and I’m still moulding and kneading the memories I have of being in their care.
I’m still working on that strange, comic balancing routine of trying to give my kids what my parents gave me, but also spare my kids what my parents did to me, all while missing them, all while breathing a little sigh of relief that they are gone.
The years my kids spent under our roof didn’t feel like they were flying by at the time, but still, they flew. The time of actively raising your kids is very, very brief. Whether that idea brings you panic or relief, here’s a thought I return to again and again:
Most of your relationship with your children happens when they are adults.
It is certainly true that the time you spend raising them in your home, feeding them, teaching them, disciplining them, caring for their bodies, minds, and souls, and showing them, deliberately or not, your best example of what it looks like to live life well – all of this is foundational.
All of it forms them, and they will carry it within them for the rest of their lives. That is what a parent-child relationship is like, for better or for worse.
Maybe, when you were in the trenches of parenting young kids, even as you hated and feared the idea of them getting older and leaving home, you also believed that when they reached adulthood, there would be some kind of freedom for you.
That, along with the pangs of missing their sweet giggles, zany ideas, and soft, beautiful faces, there would also be some welcome relief from the long hours, sleepless nights, the fuss and stickiness and bad smells and shrieking. Is that how it worked out? Probably yes and no.
If you have adult kids and are finding it unexpectedly heavy going, I invite you to return to that idea of freedom, with a bonus: The bonus of understanding that, as long as you are alive, you have the freedom to do well by your kids, no matter how old they are.
If you wish you had been more gentle, be more gentle now. If you wish you had been more encouraging, be more encouraging now. If you wish you had been more honest, be more honest now.
If you forgot to tell them you love them, tell them now. Tell them you’re proud of them, that you think they’re wonderful, and you like being with them. Maybe it will mean a lot to them. Maybe they’ll be mad it took you so long. But in any case, if one or both of you is still alive, then that means you’re not done yet.
Even if they won’t talk to you, you can still do well by them by praying for them every day with your whole heart, without rancour or bitterness or guilt, but only with good will and love. If you can’t do that, you can pray for the strength to learn how to do that. Courage!
I hope it’s not too late to admit that I don’t really know what this essay is about. I hope it’s not too cute to say: That’s kind of the point.
The longer I am a parent, the less I know what it’s really about. I failed. I did well. I missed my chance. I have lots of hope for the future. I’m disappointed in my kids and in myself. I am in awe of how well I did and how well they are doing.
For the ones who are adults, it’s a great grief that it’s over, it’s also a great relief to be done, and it’s also a great joy to realise we’re not done yet.
