We hand things down, we humans. Genes, mannerisms, susceptibility to illness and disease, perhaps a family heirloom, perhaps a bit of an estate, perhaps the clutter of accumulated objects. Lessons. Heritage can be visible or hidden; gifts intentional or not; narratives oft-told or silent. It doesn’t matter what we believe we do; we hand just about everything down.
In my household, adults outnumber – not to mention out-read, out-speak, out-earn, out-life-lesson, out-complain – the child in almost every way. Parental development is as lock-step as early child development. The order of change is fixed. Parents move from all-knowing and all-powerful to frumpy, dumpy, embarrassing, out-dated and out-of-touch. You can’t change this sequence any more than you can place walking before crawling or standing. Things go in order. On that you can depend.
My son’s 12-year-old, pre-adolescent ears and mind are about to begin closing to our late midlife decline in usefulness. There are only so many more intentional life lessons we’ll be able to pass on, yet there is so much I want him to learn: How to struggle and keep struggling rather than give up. How to forgive himself for making errors. How to hold expectations of the people he loves in a way that lets them be human and flawed but doesn’t require him to suffer abuse. How to care for his mind and body and soul in ways that don’t feel like punishment or chores. How to imagine that it is his duty to do the right thing, even when it is the hard thing. Or especially when it is the hard thing. How to participate in, cultivate, and mend relationships rather than assume he’s passively along for the ride. How to make decisions based on respect and dignity – the low-shame option for actions that result in as little regret as possible.
Yes, these are the lofty ideals I wish to impart.
Instead, here’s what I’ve passed along recently:
• Preggers is slang for knocked up.
• Quit making me remind you to brush your teeth.
• You’re entitled to whomp me upside the head if I ever say, “You can’t be hungry, you just ate.”
The other night, as part of the bedtime routine I’m still part of, my son and I talked about the physical, hormonal and emotional changes that are on the horizon for him. I said something about it being somewhat common for boys to get very angry with their parents. Especially their Moms. And that it will be OK. We’ll manage it. We don’t have to be afraid of it.
“I can’t imagine being really mad at you,” he countered, in contented and secure repose, snug in a Minecraft t-shirt and flannel jammy bottoms, under comfy covers, his trusted stuffed brown bear Burroughs resting it’s little stuffed head on the pillow they share.
“Well, just watch your Dad and see how it’s done. He’s absolutely great at it.”