Parenting Adult Children, Part 1

Lee and I started seeing this therapist together to help us become better parents to our adult children.  I feel like we are on page 2 of a 1000 page tome.  We've barely cracked the surface.  I don't know why this kind of stuff excites me.  It's like doing a puzzle, or making a blanket, or working on a craft.  I'm ready to dig in.  Bring me the horrible seedy parts of my character and my intentions.  Let me examine it from all sides.  I want to expose the shit that's been buried and dust off all the dirt and see if we can make something of it or if we need to recycle that shit or just throw it out.  It's like a spa for the psyche.  I don't think Lee shares the eager anticipation that I do.  He seems to be more of a nervous participant.  Like not quite sure he wants to jump in the water.  He's dipping a toe in and then pulling it out...slowly inching his way into the deep end, afraid of gators and sharks and shit.  I think he'd rather stay on shore.  But I am ready to go!  I'll go all 12 rounds or however many they do in boxing these days.  Of course, I probably have more free time to do this kind of activity.  And I think that I'm probably the larger part of the problem, so maybe that's where my enthusiasm comes from.  

My uncle sent me this flyer called the Novena of Abandonment.  It was written by this dude called Father Dolindo Ruotolo whose first language probably wasn't English or maybe it didn't translate perfectly.  It's 9 days of short devotions that read as though God or Jesus is speaking directly to you and then you're supposed to say, 10 times, "Oh Jesus, I surrender everything to you, take care of everything!"  This is my second go round of completing the novena and sometimes I'll repeat a day.  I've been writing it down in my journal on the days that I do it, including the chant - 10 times, like when you used to write sentences on the chalkboard when you were in trouble at school.  But I've started substituting my worries in brackets instead of "everything", for example:  "Oh Jesus, I surrender [my worries about my children] to you, take care of everything!"  The substitutions have been getting longer and more reflective. 

One of the things that the therapist said to us the other day was along the lines of basically, let your kids be your kids and don't make your relationship transactional.  And don't worry how your kids are gonna react to what you have to say.  They might not like it at first but they'll get over it (assuming it's coming from a good place and you aren't being a jerk).  So, I've been doing absolutely everything wrong, apparently.  I'm using hyperbole, obviously, but not that much.  SO much of my love has been based on performance.  Honestly, as a species, we probably shouldn't be able to breed until we're about 50 because we aren't psychologically equipped to deal with the MOUNTAIN of insecurities that raising another living being entails.  My children have ALWAYS been an extension of me and my value as a human.  That's where 99.9% from whence my anxiety arises!  I'm writing this in jest, but I'm not completely joking people.  Will their behavior, actions, choices bring shame on not just the village, but more specifically, on the village queen (that's me, btw)?  I'm a horrible person.  I've ALWAYS been such a performance based individual that I let that shit become the basis of my mothering.  If my kid got a yellow or red card during circle time, I was getting a yellow or red card on parenting.  Why couldn't I just make my kid behave?

It's much easier to manipulate/control your kids when they are little.  About age 10, that shit no longer works because they are sentient beings with minds, thoughts, desires, opinions of their own.  When I could no longer manipulate them, I'd use disappointment as a tool.  The problem is this is also manipulation.  Oh Lord, there is so much here.  Now they are adults; certifiable adults.  Two of them have graduated from college and are living independently (for the most part) and one is finishing up college.  So much of my identity is wrapped up in who they are and that is just so unfair to them.  I'm going to be drastically reductionist here because I'm short on time.  Lee doesn't have this problem, not to the extent that I do.  Yes, he deeply wants to be a good father, and he is an excellent father.  BUT, for him, their actions aren't a reflection on who he is as a person.  And I bring this crap to the table...ALL...THE...TIME!  I want him to feel the anxiety that I feel.  I want him to take action based on my insecurities.  A kid makes a bad grade one semester, he can roll with it; they're still figuring things out.  They are basically good kids.  Me: how are they going to get a job? they are going to live on our couch! - which actually translates into, "I've done a terrible job as a mother.  I don't know how to be a parent.  I'm not worthy of breath."  I want Lee to know I feel this, feel it to, and do something about it.  Ugh.  How has he lived with me for almost 30 years?  

So surrender has taken on so many different meanings for the past 2 months, in my daily life, while I've had this devotion on repeat.  I have to surrender all my selfish expectations.  It's not about me. It definitely involves me.  When Lee and I conceived them we signed the contract; they are ours for life.   But my trajectory is not dependent on their trajectory.  Lee and I have to launch them independent of our intentions.  They will shine brightly on their own long after our light begins to dim.  

Auld Lang Syne

Lee and I are in this twilight phase.  Our kids are out of the house, one making his own money and two in college.  Now our parents are starting to fall apart.  My mom broke her foot yesterday.  Her right foot, the 5th toe in 3 separate pieces.  She can't put pressure on it and she can't drive.  Just one day before Lee was feeling out of sorts because both of his parents are sick and I told him that I'd probably be despondent if it was both of my parents.  It's as if the universe was listening.  The next day, on my dad's birthday, he has to go to urgent care because of confusion and my mom breaks her foot.  Life never gets easier.  The washing machine doesn't work.  We had to buy a new furnace.  Honestly, it's a good thing I didn't get that job.  When you are a kid you think that life is going to get easier the older you get; you'll be able to make your own choices.  You can for a while. But now I look at my parents and my in-laws and their choices are getting narrower and narrower.  They are slowly losing agency over their bodies and their minds and we have to step in and make choices for them.  More than resentment, I mourn the loss of their vitality.  I want my parents and Lee's parents to stay mid 60s forever because that's where they are in my mind.  In reality, I'm closer to mid 60s.  This life is so fucking short.  In the same night I have to worry about one kid getting home to Philly, 2 others going out on NYE, and whether or not our parents are going to fall.  It's like Jan said earlier today, will I ever be happy again?  I'm not unhappy but I thought life was a story book and I get to choose the plot and the characters and the story arc and the ending? Why isn't everything glimmery and pretty and perfect?  My kids are educated and healthy.  Lee and I are in relative good health.  I'm just not prepared for this next phase; the one where our parents get sick and need us and they die.  How do I do this with grace and mercy and kindness and joy?  Where is that unspeakable joy?  It's not in the pile of clean clothes that need to be folded.  It's not under the Christmas tree.  It's not doom-scrolling on Instagram or Facebook.  It's not in the cheesecake that I made or the crafts that I do to distract myself.  It's not in my kids and who they are becoming.  It's not in my friends (they are just as busy and dealing with the same stuff).  It's not in my job (but it can be a very nice escape).  It's not in an Amazon order or a Netflix series.  It's not in a clean house or a messy house or an organized or disorganized house.  All 4 of our parents are going to be gone some time and the brutal reality is taunting me.  I've gotta make peace with that and uncover that joy no matter how insignificant the spark might seem.  My fucking mom always has told me to practice gratitude and I think that's where it is.  The joy is in the gratitude.  Thank you for chicken.  When we couldn't afford anything else to eat while I was growing up, while saying grace, with sarcasm, I'd thank God for the chicken, again.  Thank you God for the mess.  Thank you for the imperfection.  Thank you for the friends that I don't get to see but who I know that are there.  Thank you for the husband with the humor and the unending well of goodness.  Thank you for the kids who mostly want to be with us.  Thank you for the nearly 60 years with the parents who were chosen for us.  Thank you for the jobs that we love.  Thank you for our humble little house with the cracks in the ceiling and the mismatched, second-hand furniture.  Thank you for the past 2 weeks with the kids and thank you, as I've cleaned out the house, for the opportunity to see the small parcels you've consistently sent me over the years.  Thank you for showing me the small adjustments I can make in my relationships with my kids as they become adults; how to support and not undermine.  I guess as long as there is breath to breathe I can use that breath to make the sound that forms the word that says the thing that means thank you.  Thank you for this moment. 

Maybe We’re All Broken Pieces

It’s the last day of vacation.  To my left, on the beach, are a brother and a sister, maybe twins? Maybe ages 3 & 4.  They are so little and so cute.  They’re throwing sand in the water.  Little worker bees.  My 3 are now adults.  Each on their own path.  Not my path.  I’m so grateful they gave up one week of their lives to spend it with Lee and me.  Was it perfection.  No.  Would I do it again.  Yes.  Oh how I wish I could wave my magic wand and have them be those littles again.  Maybe for a day or for an afternoon.  But I love who they’ve become.

What I would do for some parenting mulligans.  Maybe that’s what makes me kind of melancholy when I see these young families.  It’s the ache of missed opportunities.  

I suppose there is beauty in imperfection.  No one gets it exactly right.  We’re all broken pieces.

Sigue Nadando (written September 21, 2022)

                  

Remind me to keep swimming in my own lane.  Just like I told my students today.  Don't look around.  Don't compare.   Don't let my self-worth come from validation by anyone other than You (unless You tell me otherwise).  Keep my eyes on You.  Just keep swimming.  

My Beasts, My Beautiful Beasts

Dog spa day seemed like a good idea.  Until it wasn't.  Puffy's beard was getting mangy and gross.  Star has been shedding like crazy.  We have a huge walk-in shower.  I've showered with my dogs before.  Puffy's spa treatment went well.  I shampooed him and gave him a Swedish massage.  I trimmed his beard and eyebrows and then clipped his toenails.  The little fella actually seemed to enjoy it.  Star was a reluctant participant of spa day.  She's a big girl; nearly 75 lbs.  But she desperately needed a shampoo, brush, and possibly a blow out.  We have large tumble weeds of Star fur billowing throughout our house.  It's like an old western town.  During the shower, Star was stress shedding.  I was covered in it.  I looked like a Yeti.  I managed to get her shampooed and as de-furred as possible.  Then I got greedy.  Her toenails are ratchet; long and unruly and clacking on the hardwood floors.  The first two paws went well and then the last 2, I clipped them too short.  I don't think it hurt her but it looked like a shark attack in the bottom of the shower.  Of course, dog spa day had been my idea.  Lee went along with it because he knew it was pointless to try to reason with me.  I had even thought, now that we are empty-nesters, we can have dog spa day every Sunday.  I had shower duty and Lee had towel duty.  Star was bleeding all over the floor with every step.  It was wet dog fur and blood and puddles.  Lee was not amused.  He did not see the humor in the situation.  I had to shower again to get all the excess dog fur off and clean the shower while he had to dry 2 wet dogs, one with 2 toenail injuries.  My husband doesn't ever lose his patience, but he was damn close.  Then we had to try to bandage Star's paws.  First aid tape doesn't stick to damp dog fur.  We probably went through about a half a dozen gauze pads and rolls of gauze until Lee decided to put tube socks on Star.  All she cares about is getting scraps from the table.  Lee had even warned me before I clipped their nails to be careful not to go too short.  After we ate dinner, Lee said the only reason he was irritated was due to his hunger.  But I know he was irritated because I signed him up to be a groomer for dog spa day.

The other day, Puffy bit me.  He's never bitten before and it was my fault, really.  I was in my bedroom and I heard one of the dogs crying.  When I rounded the corner I saw Puffy laying outside his kennel biting the wire at the bottom of the cage.  He's older and has Canine Cognitive Disorder so at first I thought he was just acting crazy.  Then I realized his back paw was stuck.  His little toe, the toenail to be exact, had somehow gotten caught in the wire and he couldn't get it out.  I sat down next to him and tried to free his back paw but the toenail was long and hooked over the wire.  I should have anticipated that he might not understand my efforts to free him were benevolent.  He looked over and chomped down on my right forearm.  I had to pry his teeth off me.  And his foot was still stuck.  I was able to hold his snout and get his toenail unhooked from the kennel and, immediately, he was happy and hopping around and sniffing me.  I had a perfect imprint of his teeth on my forearm.  Luckily there was no broken skin and he's up to date on his shots.  I still called a couple of ER friends and did a video chat with Methodist Hospital to make sure I didn't need antibiotics.  Everyone reassured me that I was fine and they all had more sympathy for the dog.  Not only had I been viciously attacked by my best friend, but I had also been betrayed.  The emotional pain was worse than the physical pain. 

I think the toenail caught on the kennel instigated dog spa day.  That and Star's exceptionally long nails.  But I think there might be more to it than just canine hygiene.  I think that I am grasping at how to fill my time now that all 3 of my kids are gone.  The other day I cleaned and vacuumed my whole house.  I've been tackling my to-do list for work.  I've been working more days.  I've gone to hang out with my mom.  I've been to exercise.  I've watched TV.  I've been out with friends.  I've done my daily devotionals and journaled.  But it's weird to think this is it.  

The dogs are getting old.  By a cruel twist of fate, I think that the rainbow bridge is not too far off for either one of them.  The other day when my mom came over to let the dogs out, Puffy got lost in the back yard.  When she went outside to find him, he was waiting outside the shed doors to be let back in the house.  We had to buy Star rubber socks to wear on her back paws because she is having trouble getting her back legs off the floor.  A few times I've found her spread-eagle like a starfish on the ground and I have to help her up.  She cries a lot at night too.  We have her on pain medicine and joint supplements, but I don't think they are doing the trick.  The vet offered to give her acupuncture.  

The hardest part about the dogs is they were litter mates with my kids.  The 5 of them grew up together.  I can still count to 3 and Star will listen to me.  They have been remarkably good dogs.  I'm not ready to say goodbye to them.  We just started dog spa day.  Star needs to have her quinceañera next April.  I need at least one daughter with a quinceañera.  I'll never be ready to say goodbye.  The miles we've walked in the neighborhood and on the bayou, the nights of them sleeping in my kids' rooms, the countless afternoons when it's just been me and the dogs, my 2 pals lying on the ground next to me, and the hundreds of photos and videos of them I've annoyingly sent on our family group text - that is the hardest chapter to bring to an end.  This is the hardest part of empty nesting.  The kids leaving is hard.  But the dogs leaving - that is devastating.  

Empty Nest

In August, my last one will leave the nest.  For this, I am profoundly unprepared.  It all went much faster than I could have predicted.  

Being the parent of young adults is an art that I have yet to master.  In my mind, I still think of them as little puppies.  I want to tell them what to do all of the time.  But, they aren't necessarily appreciative of my unsolicited advice.  I find it difficult to keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself.  I think this is where conflict mostly arises.  When they share something with me it's not because they want my input.  

When I talk to my friends who have children that are roughly the same age, they tell me the same thing.  I think it is easier for my husband.  I don't know why.  It's not like he doesn't care what goes on in their lives but he doesn't try to tell them what to do.  He comes across as more accepting and thus, they talk to him about more things.  Sometimes he doesn't tell me stuff because the kids ask him not to tell me ('Don't tell mom.  She'll freak!").  They are correct.

My general approach to life has been to catastrophize.  Regardless of the situation that is being put forth, if it involves one of my kids, I think of the ABSOLUTE WORST SCENARIO.  It is a character flaw.  I know this about myself.  Thus far, in real-life, none of the doom-filled scenes have played-out.  I am working on this with my therapist; my tendency to react rather than respond.  It's not easy.  

Most of life isn't easy.  There are episodes of utter, unadulterated joy and in these times I try to be cognizant of what is happening.  Usually, it's something seemingly mundane and lacking in ceremony - a drive in the car, a morning when everyone is home, a meal around a table.  It's during these moments I try to remember to give thanks.  Those of us who are of my generation can recall Mountain Dew commercials.  It was always kids in their early 20s jumping off cliffs into a lake or jet-skiing or laughing with their friends around a campfire.  It was all very curated and made to seem like life was one giant fun-filled adventure.  Honestly, that is what social media is now; it's the Mountain Dew commercials of yesterday.  We had the benefit of knowing it was scripted.  I think we forget that when scroll through our feeds.  

The day of and the 2 days following my daughter's graduation, I bawled my eyes out.  During pilates, I wept.  At the stop light, I wept.  In the shower, I wept.  These were giant, breath-sucking, snot-slinging sobs.  At night, I cried myself to sleep.  I didn't think I had any more tears to shed, but they kept coming.  I'm not alone.  I know there are other weepers out there.  You've texted me.  I know you exist.  Don't worry, I'm not going to out you.  I'm so freaking grateful for you and your realness, for your vulnerability, for your friendship, for your transparency, for your partnership in feeling inadequate, for sharing your mistakes.  I know your victories; sometimes I have to remind you of them (and vice versa).  But it's the sorrow and the anxiety and worry that binds us together.  

What am I going to do when my nest is empty?  At times I'll roost, but I'm going to use my wings to fly.  As long as they'll have me and as I learn to listen more and talk less, I'll fly to wherever my chicks make their own nests.  I'll keep my nest nice and cozy so they can come back whenever they'd like.  I'll come sit on your porch, drink your coffee or your wine and laugh or cry with you.  I'll spend time with those I love and take stock in the here and now and treasure all the moments that make this a life.  

Going Through the Motions Till It Sticks

I'm not in a good place right now.  It's been a complicated past couple of days and I'm feeling pretty down on myself.  I'm trying not to, but there is a lot of negative self-talk.  I can't really go into the specifics but feeling left out, feeling under-appreciated, and having to make some really difficult decisions have been the trifecta.  I haven't been in a funk like this in a long time.  I can't remember the last time.  Certainly I've had kid issues, where I worry that I'm doing a shit job raising one of my kids or I'm worried about a particular direction I fear they may be taking.  But, feeling shit about myself; it's been several years.  

I used to be particularly good at negative self-talk.  But when I turned 40 and then again 50, I stopped caring as much about what other people thought about me (or so I thought).  But then this constellation of events occurred and it has me re-evaluating my self-worth.  I know there is a bigger lesson in all of this and I'm not going to let this keep me down, but for right now at this particular moment in time, I'm going to wallow in it.  Just marinade and see where it takes me.  

I guess I have to consider, on what is my self-worth based?  Where does my identity lie?  Is it my family of origin?  My family that I created?  My extended family?  My cultural background?  My friends?  My profession?  All of these things are fleeting.  As a Christian, I know where my foundation should be, but sometimes that doesn't feel like enough.  Or maybe it doesn't feel good enough.  I want external validation.  I want to be included because if you include me then you like me.  If you don't include me then you don't like me and maybe I'm unlikeable.  Maybe there is some flaw in myself that I don't see.  Like I have poop on my shoe.  Or my breath always stinks.  Or I have a miserable personality.  Or a difficult character.  Why do I go there?  Why do I assume it's me?  Why do I take my perception of other people's perceptions of me over my own knowledge of what I know to be true about myself?  

And then, there is envy.   When people at work get acknowledged in ways that I don't.  I've never been acknowledged in the way that some of the others have.  And I want it.  I want that label.  I want that shiny title.  Because even if I know it about myself, I know deep, deep down in my craw that I'm the shit, I want someone else to give me an award that says "YOU ARE THE SHIT".  It's like when you were in high school and they gave out carnations at Valentine's Day.  Some people got a ton and some people got none.  I HATED that.  As if you're not insecure enough as it is in high school that they have to reinforce it with anonymous carnations.  It's the same in academia.  I'll never be one of the ones who gets all the accolades or all the awards.  But I know that I've impacted the lives of my learners.  Am I a cretan for wanting a certificate saying so?  I'm am embracing my insecurity right now.  Yes, damn it!  I want the certificate!  

But I guess that is what makes me, me.  That's my charm and my allure. Maybe people assume because I'm always making everyone else feel so damn good about themselves that I don't need those positive affirmations.  I'm the one you come to when you need an affirmation.  Like a well that doesn't run dry.  But I can be shallow too, people.  I need props.  What about me?  Look at me over here smiling and telling you that you are FUCKING awesome?  But I AM fucking awesome.  I literally know that I am.  Why the fuck can't all these other fools recognize it and just give me my fucking crown and sash already?  

And then there is that other thing.  The stupidly difficult decision.  The very adult and responsible and professional thing that I had to do.  The thing that was the right thing to do but might sever relationships.  Damn, if that doesn't feel like a perpetual punch in the gut with accompanying nausea and a sense of doom, then I'd suspect I have morning sickness and a giant pulmonary embolism all at the same time.  

So, it's a tough couple of days folks.  A really shitty couple of days.  But despite the bad feels, I have so much for which to be grateful.  That's the worst part of it.  Two thirds of the shit I'm lamenting don't matter at all and the other one third will have long term benefit (though I might not see it for a VERY long time or maybe ever).  I feel a little bit better writing this out.  But there isn't anyone with whom I can share this.  This isn't a FB post.  What's the saying, Fake it Till You Make It.  That's what I'm gonna be doing.  Going through the motions till it sticks.