By Chris Deacon
People don’t talk about the next phase. Turns out they’re not “done” after all. I thought the “bigger” issues were cliques, crushes, underage drinking, and getting into college. But now my kid is out there, living in another city, navigating things big and small every day. And I can’t stop thinking about everything I forgot to teach her. Big things. Way bigger than waiting her turn, holding eye contact, or wiping front-to-back. Now it’s: Will she recognize signs of abuse in a relationship? Does she really know never to leave her drink alone at a bar? And what DOES depression look like in a 20-year-old?
The other night I woke in a cold sweat because I’ve never taught my daughter to do a breast exam. How did I miss that? For years, I was focused on helping her through the trauma of simply growing breasts. It only hit me recently that she has to live with them for the rest of her life so she better learn how to goddamn take care of them. You go from covering the basics of sex to frantically playing catch-up on the drive to university: “…you know you still need to use condoms even if you go on the pill, right? And you’re aware that HPV is skyrocketing in young women because of, um, blow jobs?”
I’m always remembering something else I haven’t told her, like staying away from Red Bull even when it’s 5am, and she’s tired but promised her housemates she’d stay up to watch the sunrise — does she know what’s in that stuff? Also, if she IS going to watch the sunrise (which she totally should, but she should leave her phone at home and just experience it) she should do it from a hilltop, not perched precariously on the edge of her roof.
On the subject of housemates: Will she ignore their casual assertion that Ativan is great for nerves or that taking their ADD meds when she needs to cram is absolutely okay? Does she know in her bones that electric shock is a thing, and to keep the blow dryer well away from the tub? Is she aware that turning on a gas burner to make eggs at 4am while draped in a silk kimono with droopy sleeves is a bad idea no matter how sexy and French it looks? Speaking of fires — does she know how to stop, drop, and roll? I vaguely remember mentioning it at various points in her childhood, but it’s not like I ever held a fire and safety workshop. Why did I never do that??
I know, I know: I can’t teach her everything. I can’t live her life for her. She needs to go through stuff. Mistakes will be made. I can’t protect my daughter from pain or hurt. If anything, my micromanaging pushes her away. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to teleport her to some future point — age 35 would be good — so she emerges from this decade unscathed.
They say that at 20, you can stretch a hand in one direction and touch your childhood and in the other direction and graze your adult self. In between those two points, there’s just fumbling in the dark. I know the fumbling is essential. And yet… I ruminate. Last summer, my daughter appeared to be struggling. I spoke to my husband about it. I mentioned boy trouble, a new job, and navigating roommates and a house for the first time. He patiently waited for me to stop talking. “That’s called ‘life,’” he said.
And he’s right. It’s life. But it’s hard to be the parent of a young adult. It’s hard to know your role, your place, when — and how much — to intervene. Yes, she’s 20, but I’m still the first person she calls when she cracks her phone or questions her major.
And what about when we are genuinely worried about our fledgling adults? When we see them making bad choices? Acknowledging that I’ve lost control doesn’t happen overnight. Accepting that I can’t force my kid to eat more or vape less takes time. I know 20 sounds old, but you’d be amazed how young it looks when they’re asleep in their childhood bed.
I know I’m a helicopter parent, a lawnmower parent, and whatever over-parenting term they come out with next. I’m working on it. My own mom died when I was 21, so there was certainly no one hovering. But I did pick up some bad habits. There was no one to tell me that bingeing and purging was a bad idea, for example, or that smoking was maybe not the best hobby for someone with a family history of cancer, or that flying down a very steep hill, drunk, at 2am, minus a helmet or light, was anything but a death wish. But maybe every 20-year-old has a death wish. Or maybe feeling invincible goes hand in hand with being 20. Maybe I would have listened to my mom’s advice. More likely, I would have told her what she wanted to hear and kept riding full-tilt down that hill.
I found the closest thing to a parenting book that I’m going to get at this point. It’s called Quarterlife: The Search for Self in Early Adulthood by Satya Doyle Byock. Reading it has changed how I see my daughter, and every young person I know navigating young adulthood. Byock heartfully and beautifully explains why my kid needs to get away from me. That she, in fact, can’t become an adult until she severs the cord — emotionally and financially — from her parents and, more specifically, from me. It helps to see it this way; that her very survival largely depends on leaving me in the dust. She’s hardwired to reject every last bit of unasked-for advice I lob her way. Her stubborn refusal to get rid of those god-awful acrylics — even though they prevent her from playing her guitar — is actually a sign that she’s forging her own path, moving through the world on her own terms, making choices and living with the consequences.
It also explains why last summer felt so hard for us. You name it, we clashed about it. But I did get two things right. First, I signed us up for eight weeks of hockey. Every Monday — no matter how crappy the day — we’d walk with our bags to the local rink. Sports are the great equalizer: I suck at hockey; my daughter’s played her whole life. On the ice, she’s the surefooted one and it’s me who’s fumbling in the dark.
My second summer triumph was convincing my kid to watch Thelma & Louise, a film that changed my life when it came out 25 years ago. She resisted mightily. “What’s it even about?” she said with irritation. “You’ll see,” I responded simply. In truth, I was nervous, overinvested in her loving it. For the first twenty minutes, she was visibly restless. “Oh my god I can’t even hear it! Who are those women? How old are they??” I worried that the film hadn’t aged well. That the themes were antiquated. That I would lose her to Snapchat. But the moment Thelma and Louise hit the road in that convertible, she settled down, and for the next two hours, you could hear a pin drop. It was still the same powerful film I had remembered; a tale of the unbreakable bond between two women. A story of struggle, transformation, and growth.
When the movie ended, as Glenn Frey’s “Part of Me, Part of You” played over the credits, she looked over at me. “That was the best movie I’ve ever seen,” she said. I beamed inwardly, grateful that we were still on the same page about something. Then we watched the rest of the credits roll as the song played in the background:
“We can never know about tomorrow. But still, we have to choose which way to go. You and I are standing at the crossroads. Darling, there is one thing you should know. You’re a part of me, I’m a part of you. Wherever we may travel. Whatever we go through. Whatever time may take away. It cannot change the way we feel today. So hold me close and say you feel it too. You’re part of me, and I am part of you.”