In a Nov. 27 New Yorker cartoon, a woman and her teenager are sitting in a therapist’s office. The therapist says, “I’m sorry, but so far medical science hasn’t come up with a cure for adolescence.”
One of my favorite relatives is dealing with her kid’s twilight zone of youth between 15 and 20. It took me back almost two decades to an incident etched in my memory when my daughter turned 18 and I wrote her this letter:
My dear daughter,
Today is your first full day of being an adult after your 18th birthday, and didn’t it start in a childish way? You had left the pop-top up on your brown Mazda, where the grill resembled a seven-year-old’s mouth with the two central teeth missing. Remember how you reported the mysterious rock that bounced off the freeway onto your car one day?
“It never rains in Southern California, but girl I’m gonna warn you”¦” Are those familiar lyrics to you? Probably not. Well, it rained and this was no whisper of water. This was something a quiet Midwestern farmer might smile about after a drought. And it rained both outside your well-waxed car, as well as inside on your furry beige slipcovers. How many times had I nagged you about closing the pop-top roof, an easy target for a thief, a sleeping spot for an animal, an open access for rain? “Oh, mom,” you responded. “I will close it”¦later.”
But today you were an adult with all the privileges and responsibilities of this newfound role. As much as it hurt, I had to respect your request, delivered in stops and starts, similar to the sound the Mazda makes daily as it coughs its way up the street to school. “I’m an adult. Don’t baby me. You’re too protective. I have everything under control.” That was your valedictory speech at your family birthday dinner in the restaurant overlooking the bay the night before, where no hint of rain reached us.
It hurt me and humored me as much as it must have hurt and humored my parents too many years ago when I became an 18-year-old “adult,” and as much as it will hurt and humor you when your children strike out for freedom. “To be an adult is, precisely, to be responsible,” according to Saint-Exupery.
I told you this morning that it had rained last night. When I reached for the newspaper encased in protective plastic on the slippery driveway, I saw your car standing in the shower without benefit of soap or towel. You replied from inside the bathroom, your newfound fort-behind-enemy-lines: “Don’t worry about it.”
But I did worry about it, for that is the role of the mother: to worry, to wait, to weep. Besides, I was afraid I would weaken and rescue my new “adult.”
“Mom,” you said yesterday, “how does it feel not to have any more children in the house, just adults?”
“Takes the heat off me,” I replied with a smile.
I sipped my hot coffee, closed the windows in the family room, for the rain played no favorites this dark day and waited for my “adult” to return disguised as a child. You didn’t disappoint me. It was one of your finest performances.
“You’re just going to have to drive me to school. The car is soaked. As it is, I’m going to be late.” You delivered this speech in one long breath, unlike last night’s stop and start chatter.
“No, dear, you’re an adult, remember? You’ll have to dry the car with towels and put a plastic trash bag on the seat. I won’t take you to school.”
“I can’t believe you,” you said, lighting the room with those electric blue eyes. “There’s a pool of water in my front seat. Are you going to selfishly sip your coffee and let me ruin this outfit?”
I could feel the maternal instinct begin at my feet and climb to my heart. You had successfully manipulated me before. “All I want is horseback riding lessons and a cat. That’s all.” And we found ourselves with a cat, a dog, a horse, three hamsters, and two huge goldfish as daily dinner guests.
This morning on the first full day as an 18-year-old was a critical decision that would establish our “adult” relationship. A thousand times before, hadn’t we faced decisions when you were growing up? When you learned to walk and it hurt to see you fall, it would have been much easier to carry you, to rescue you, to overprotect you.
“I’m sorry,” I said and splashed the coffee carelessly into the sink.
You slammed the doors and headed for the car without a raincoat or a friend. I watched you from the window in the living room as you closed the top, threw the towels around the seat like a dryer bouncing them, spread out the plastic bag, and took off for school.
I got ready for work as the rain continued to perform its magic like a good cry, cleansing some emotional pain. I knew you wouldn’t forgive me when you returned home that evening, when we two adults sat down to discuss the day’s events. Childbirth is painful, but so is the pain of letting go of that adolescent adult. Someday you’ll understand.
Love, Mom
Adolescence can be a bumpy road for both the teen and the parents, especially in this day. Some saint said that patience is the companion of wisdom. Most parents aren’t saints, but the advice is divine!