Post 3: Moms and Dads and Kids..... Oh, My!

Reading literature has brought so much to my life (God that sounds cheesy…whatever, it’s true—the joys of escapism), but there is much to be said about reading other “texts,” other forms of communication, like the in-person kind, with real people.

Ah, so much to say…

Had a conversation with the parent of a student the other day, and it was a bit like the movie Groundhog Day, where Bill Murray experiences the same day over and over. I’ve had this particular conversation soooooo many times. It is interesting, the experiences that we all have (as students, as parents, whatever roles we are playing at the time…I digress, haha…)

So here goes: I feel like I am Bill Murray when a parent tries to explain to me that she is both worried about -- excited for -- exasperated by her teenage son, who is coming down the home stretch of his oh-so-critical junior year. He is doing well, but she isn’t quite sure that he understands how important the next piece of the puzzle is—the dreaded college application process. She wants him to start early, to talk to other people about the process, to practice writing college essays—basically to walk into it with his eyes open, fully understanding the decisions he will be making. (And it is here that I wonder, can anyone?   I made my college decision based upon where my boyfriend already was…omg…kids don’t try this at home…). Her son, on the other hand, is a bit reluctant to discuss the topic (for many reasons, I imagine, certainly too many to describe here…). He isn’t mean or rude. He is a great kid. He is just young—and he doesn’t particularly want to discuss things with his mom. She takes a step forward; he takes a step back.

The dance of parenthood. Of adolescence. Each of them, I’m sure, meaning well, but not quite meeting in the middle of this particular dance floor.

Back to Groundhog Day. While this conversation with this mom reminded me of so many other conversations, it was also like having a conversation with my younger self, for there was a time when I was steeped in all of those worries. My daughters are all past high school now, but I won’t soon forget all of those feelings—being worried, yet so excited. Trying to share in the process with them, yet only being allowed to do so up to a certain point (and how hard it is to admit that there is a real moment in parenthood, when you realize it is your child—not you—who is driving the bus). Each of my daughters wanted independence. Each of them, toward the end of high school, at a different stage of readiness, each so very different, but certain touch points were the same…

Back to the mom (yikes, this is beginning to sound rather like a journal entry, where I wander in nine different directions at one time, perhaps I should let my students grade MY blog, haha…). In between the lines of our conversation was something neither of us said, the fact that she was also wondering if she was ready, wondering about the changes his absence would make in her life. She knows that her life will shift and change, but she isn’t quite sure yet how this will feel. And, again, I felt like I was talking to my younger self. Because I sure did wonder. And it (like most things you know are coming) has been better—and worse—than I had expected.

Digression number twelve. In my AP Lit class this year we read Ordinary People, and there is a scene in the book (and even in the movie, although the movie doesn’t really follow the novel all that well) where the dad is talking to one of his colleagues about his son, who is also in his junior year of high school. To make a long story short, the dad in the book has far more to be worried about in terms of his son than most parents, but the worry is the same—most parents want to be there, want to be closer to their adolescents, to be helpful (please, they think, let me be helpful! Why doesn’t he recognize that I have learned a life lesson or two?). Parents know they can’t live their kids’ lives for them, but they want to lend a bit of their life experience to their children (my God, they wonder, she used to need me!) The kids (of course) want to begin to make their own way.

The dance of parenthood. A step forward, a step back. Strangely, in Ordinary People the dad’s colleague tells him not to worry—and not simply because everything will turn out alright—but that such worry is a waste of time, because the teenager in question will be “gone,” off on his own in the blink of an eye.

What? Is that true? Are our worries for our children wasted? That is not at all what I wanted to say to this mom, to any mom.

I want to tell her that he is smart, that he is ready. And I do. I do so want to be consoling, not just to ease her worry and to make her go away, but because I know it is true. What I don’t say, however, is that I truly do believe he will be more than fine—because there is no way to say this, really, without sounding condescending, like I am trying to minimize her concerns. But I want to communicate this somehow. Because I believe it.

So, since everything (everything!) reminds me of a movie, I downshift into the movie Parenthood, where a mom is telling her son, “These feelings… You are right to have all these feelings.”   Because it all sounds so familiar. Each year, students and their parents come in and out with the tide.