LETTING GO OF OUR ADULT CHILDREN
Chapter 1: Something Unexpected Happened on the Way to My Ideal Family
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BY ARLENE HARDER, MA, MFT
Chapter 1 of Letting Go of Our Adult Children demonstrates how often children don't turn out the way we expected.
Four hours after our first child was born, Bob wrote me a letter in red pencil. He said that day was his "red letter day" because I had given him a beautiful daughter, the beginning of what was sure to be a fine family. The letter is a special treasure, for it highlighted my awareness that, finally, I was a mother, my "proper role" in life. When our children were grown, successful and independent, I would look back with pleasure and pride at how well I had done the job of mothering. Success was surely programmed into my DNA.
This rosy picture of the future was part and parcel of every family magazine in the thirties, forties, and fifties; it was also painted with broad strokes in middle-class homes across America. From the time I was a small girl my parents had told me I would get married and have a family, just as my grandparents and great-grandparents had been doing successfully for generations. Pictures in family albums and visits with aunts, uncles, and cousins convinced me that parental success was woven into the fabric of our family.
Had I paid greater attention, I would have noticed that not all my relatives were perfectly happy. One of my cousins had been married three times and was estranged from her family. Another cousin had divorced twice. Another left her husband when her children were very little and did not reconcile with him until many years later. My father's mother committed suicide (although for many years we were told she died of cancer). But to the extent these situations were acknowledged, they were considered aberrations. In any case, I knew that I would parent the right way. Our children would be protected from the frailties and pitfalls that sidetrack others.
I was in for a rude awakening.
A Train Derailed
Three of our children turned out more or less as I expected. For example, they have all graduated with honors from college: Diane, now 32, in Latin American studies, Rebecca, 28, in history, and Brad, her twin, in elementary education. Honors were not expected of them, even though they are all gifted. But we did assume they would finish college, unless they had shown an aptitude in a field that did not require higher education. Our ideas of "successful" careers didn't focus on having them strive to become president of the United States, CEO of a major company, winner of the Nobel prize in literature, or any other position that would demonstrate they were the best in their field. Doing honest work they enjoyed was all we expected. Today Diane is happily pursuing a career in computer programming after spending several years working in fund raising for nonprofit organizations. Rebecca plans to enter graduate school in the field of geography, and Brad will get his teaching certificate next year.
All of our children are individualists.
Diane is an extrovert who is very interested in observing how people's temperaments fit certain profiles. She likes dancing, hiking, camping, church activities, and family reunions. As a teenager she was fascinated by genealogy, even that of acquaintances, and she has now become the family record keeper of marriages, births, and deaths for aunts and uncles, cousins and second cousins once removed.
Rebecca is quite different from her sister and has many interests and talents, which include traveling, feminist issues, reading, bike riding, hiking, and piano playing. Although more introverted than her sister, one summer she spent three months in Europe meeting new people and having a wonderful time; after graduation from college she traveled for three months across the United States and is working to save enough money to leave California for new adventures elsewhere.
Brad is laid-back and fairly easygoing. After high school he took a job as a tow truck operator, and during college worked as a caretaker of disabled children and young adults. He backpacks, rides a mountain bike, plays the guitar in a small band, and is a creative and talented potter.
We see Diane, Rebecca and Brad as often as possible, and our relationships with them are growing more satisfying all the time as we learn what it means to be parents of adult children actively pursuing lives of their own.
As I said, they are individualists. None of them, however, is an individualist quite like our second child, David, now thirty-one.To begin with, although he is gifted like the others, he has had almost no college experience. And while sharing some of the enthusiasm for life which his siblings exhibit, the story of where he is heading (at least up to this point) is very, very different from the direction they are traveling.
Our view of David as "different" is not because he advocates macrobiotic food, doesn't want to live anywhere near a city, writes original music, and plays the guitar. Nor is he different just because he lives with the mother of his child, our first grandchild, and her two other sons on a piece of land without running water or electricity two miles from a paved road.
His lifestyle choices are foreign to us because he is not willing to work (claiming he can't work for anyone who isn't as smart as he is, although he's worked in the past) and because his finances come from Social Security Disability. He draws this government support because of what he claims is "mental instability" created by drugs and alcohol. His personality certainly has been affected in some ways by past abuse, although he does not appear to us to have been damaged enough to prevent him from pursuing gainful employment. Nevertheless, for several years he lived on the streets in northern California. And while he claims to be completely satisfied with his lifestyle, clearly his future is not likely to fulfill the dreams we had for him.
Somehow my husband and I were not able to assure our son a life either drug-free or successful by middle-class standards. So the train of parenting I entered with confidence and enthusiasm got derailed somewhere along the way.
Hanging on our wall is a collage of family photos, including one of David when he was ten. With hands on his hips he stands proudly in front of a mariposa pine in Yosemite, grinning from ear to ear. This is the picture of a child we expected, when he was young, to make a significant difference in the world through his talents and many interests. He had the creative capacity to design a building that conserved energy more efficiently, to write a prize-winning play, to build the proverbial better mouse trap.
When I reflect upon the potential that picture represents and compare it with the path my son has chosen, tears sometimes come to my eyes. Yet the picture stays on the wall to remind me of the good times we have had. I welcome my tears because they help wash away the pain of disappointment and lost dreams. Grieving must come before letting go.
What Kind of Home Did We Create for Our Children?
What happened to the good intentions we experienced on that red-letter day our parenting began? What caused our train to end up so far from our original destination? Our dreams were no different than those of countless parents who have high hopes for their families. Why weren't we successful while other families were? I needed answers to these questions if I was to understand and heal my pain and disappointment.
Since David's experimental use of marijuana in high school created the most noticeable change in him, and in our family, I began looking for answers by exploring what happened at that point in time. How did he develop the pattern of chemical use, and then abuse, that affected almost every aspect of his life? I knew that David did not look on Bob and me as models for his behavior, as we are extremely moderate drinkers and don't use any mood-altering drugs, illegal or otherwise. Of course, alcohol and marijuana were all too easily available from friends and others, as many parents have unhappily discovered. Yet blaming "society" seemed too pat an explanation for what went wrong. However, satisfactory answers might come by looking further back into our family's past. I would need to do some serious sleuthing if I were to uncover more than a superficial answer.
Although exploring the environment in our home meant I would probably need to confront mistakes I might be embarrassed to admit, the pain of my estrangement from our son overshadowed any reluctance to dig into the past. If digging could help me make sense of what happened, I was willing to dig.
No analysis — ; least of all the biased analysis of a family member — ; can accurately describe the innumerable characteristics that make up a family. More than that, the hundreds of experiences, qualities, and traits of each person, positive and negative, are synergistic, creating a whole picture much different from what the separate pieces might suggest when viewed separately. And so I am aware that any evaluation of myself and my family must be not only biased but also incomplete, even if space did not preclude a more detailed story. Nevertheless, the limited portrait I present here is as honest as I can make it.
Bedtime Stories and Other Good Stuff
A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since I first became a mother. And if I had to do it over again, I would be a very different kind of parent. Yet despite the many lessons I needed to learn, I believe that basically our children had a good start in life.
I rocked them, nursed them, hugged them, read to them and told them I loved them. As we worked together to assemble puzzles, construct block houses, and play hundreds of games, I knew mothering was a job I would always love — ; and couldn't imagine our children would be hard to handle when they became teenagers.
There were picnics in local parks and in the mountains above our home; trips to the zoo and the beach; camping vacations. We hiked because Bob and I liked the outdoors, and our children learned to enjoy it as well.
There were swimming lessons, piano lessons, art classes, karate lessons. Cub Scouts, Brownies, and marching with the Indian Maidens in our community's Old-Fashioned Days parade.
Since we were in California, isolated from the rest of the family who lived primarily in Ohio and Pennsylvania, we wanted our children to know they were part of a wider family unit. So we periodically took trips back East for family reunions, and the grandparents came to visit every year or so. Considering the distance, our children got to know their cousins as well as could be expected.
As I review the many positive things we did for our children, there was one that seems to me most important. Our children had the security of knowing their parents loved and respected each other. While there are many differences between my husband and me, we both came from homes where divorce was seldom considered. Consequently, we worked (and stumbled) through a number of our problems. In the process, we also papered over other issues that should have been addressed.
A Perfectionist Mother Trying to Do Things Right
When I began motherhood, I was fairly liberal politically but fairly rigid in how I viewed my role as parent. This was partly the result of my temperament and partly the consequence of a childhood in which there were many "shoulds," "oughts," "rights," and "wrongs." Although I didn't insist on spotless floors and neatly made beds, being a perfectionist permeated many facets of my parenting.
As a child I never questioned whether I was being asked to be perfect; my siblings were also perfectionists in one way or another. Our parents' high standards left little room to question the reasons for their rules and values – an attitude typical for that generation. When a child was told to jump, she was expected to say, "How high?" and not, "Why?"
As a recovering perfectionist I can see why perfectionism is a common feature of the human character. After all, perfectionists give the best they have to offer. You can generally count on them to do what they say they'll do, even if it means giving up their own needs to be sure you're satisfied. On the other hand, I now realize that the standards of perfectionists are usually those others consider "right," not necessarily those the perfectionist herself would choose – if she could freely follow the dictates of her own heart.
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© Copyright 1994, Arlene Harder, MA, MFT, Reprinted with permission
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