I read the news.
And the hardest job I know of is being a parent.
Last night I had tears come up when Ruth came bursting out of school with her sign up sheet for band next year. Is she that old already? I thought.
Tears again, mixed with laughter when Henry attempted to pour himself into his summer pajamas and said they were fine, when they were suddenly three sizes too small. Is he this big already? I thought.
I struggle daily with the small decisions and big ones too. Trying to strike a balance for their lives between fun and nurturing. Limits within which they are free spirits. Caged birds or butterflies in a net. I try not to be a helicopter or an armchair or whatever the parental behavior tagline du jour is from the New York Times but really, everything is a judgment call, including our interpretations of how other people parent.
Do I let them have french fries on the side? I know they'll eat more that way but are they getting enough vegetables?
Do I let them stay up until ten to play Rock Band or should I insist they take their books and go to bed at eight-thirty so they have energy for the weekend, when they can stay up later?
Do I insist on the rain boots in the downpour or let them wear sneakers and have wet feet all day so their friends don't say they are babies?
Do I let my sixteen year old child sail around the world alone or do I forbid it and risk her blistering resentment for the rest of her life for not allowing her to achieve this goal? Goal, defined loosely here. Item on bucket list? Fool's mission? Incredible achievement? Once again, everyone's going to have an opinion. But raising a child involves having to be the bad guy sometimes too. It's far easier to give in to your child's whims than to stand your ground and resist, keeping the limits you have set because they work for you and they work for your child. You know your child best. Your child's awareness of self develops so slowly, it's like summer pajamas you don't realize you have grown out of until it's too late and suddenly you are self aware. But oh how they nag and mope and become impossible.
But it isn't too late. Self-awareness continues to develop every moment for the rest of your life and things you thought were so important and so necessary fail to be so and having the freedom to try and fail and try and succeed or maybe just think about trying are just as important as common sense and rules of thumb. You'll never be as smart as you think you are when you're sixteen.
Maybe teenagers don't need to be sailing around the world or climbing Mount Everest or breaking records, getting sponsors and writing books. Where do they go from there? Is the pursuit of a early-life goal worth not getting the chance to live the rest of your life because you squandered your years on a foolish teenage idea? Or is it so incredibly intuitive to have such a thirst for a goal at that age that all attempts should be made to achieve it because that is what you were put on earth to do?
I don't know quite what I'll do if and when Ruth comes to me at sixteen and tells me she wants to break some difficult, dangerous record that few adults, let alone children, would attempt. And I doubt I'll have any better answers for you when she's twenty-six, or thirty-six, or twelve for that matter.
I just remember yesterday I was envious of her logic, because she said she chose the clarinet to play in band because it's small and easy to carry up the hill.
When I was eleven, I picked the french horn. I also grew up on the side of a hill.
Maybe she is meant for great things. I hope against hope they don't include winding up lost at sea. Keep your fingers crossed that Abby's parents don't live to regret the choices they have made in allowing their children to carry out their dreams, I can't imagine what they feel right now. And above all, keep your fingers crossed for Abby. She has her whole life ahead of her.
I wonder what type of parent she'll be?
