My youngest might be writing her college essay on being raised by older/elder parents. I hope not. She’ll have say that most of her friends’ parents could be my kids—age wise, anyway. And that her step-father died when she was eleven, and her own father when she was 16. To top it off, my boyfriend is retired and I’ll soon be. I recommend more forward looking text.
In our household we talk of downsizing in the same breath of college choices and whether or not the SAT will be held this year. So, let’s reverse the subject, and focus on what it’s like to raise a child in my sixties when most of my contemporaries are celebrating grandchildren.
To start, I filed for a second adoption because I wanted a sibling for my older daughter. It was a good decision. My daughters, as different as they are, are fiercely loyal to each other and to me. It’s not all roses and sunshine. We’re just as caught up as any family in the politics of mothers and daughters and sibling rivalry. Who’s the favorite daughter, second-guessing my thoughts and actions toward the other sibling, and taking about me behind my back is all normal behavior.
So here I am, tasked with getting my youngest through the final high school year and ready for college … during a pandemic no less. Keeping me alive seems to be the priority. “For you,” she says, thinking she can do this all by herself. I’m glad she thinks so. It takes the load off.
Youth resents elders for their knowledge and experience, while elders resent the disrespect. What else is new? We’ve all been on one side of this age coin or the other.
Most of her friends’ parents are earlier up life’s road, busy with career building via contacts, seminars, and classes, and making those damn mortgage payments. They have other children and elder parents and strive to make the boss happy.
Been there, done that for more than forty years. And now, career building makes no sense.
Thanks to Covid-19, my daughter will start school remote this fall. Her essays are underway, she’d busy with AP classes. Thankfully, she’s super organized, and maybe was born that way. I don’t need to do much more than keep buying food and get her to talk to me. I’ll also fill out forms, pay for college applications, and edit her essays. Her smile is my reward, along with the sassy banter that I love. Eighteen looms in a few short months, after which she’ll be even sassier. And then the holidays will come, followed by the winter and spring terms. I hope she has some in–school experience before it ends. I hope for a senior prom and graduation and all the fun that goes with it. Her junior prom dress hangs in the closet, never worn.
I picture her flying away to college, me along with her that very first time. And then I’ll be done: the chick hatched, the ship launched, the horse out of the gate. Until that first call from college, parents’ weekend, and summers home (though she claims she’ll never come back).
In some way, I’m like her peers’ parents.
In other ways, not so much. She’s enjoyed the security of an end-of-career paycheck. That means funds for sports, sports uniforms, and tutoring help from every direction. She’s been my travel and shopping companion from Maine to Florida to California, her travel sophistication deeply engrained.
While she’s gets ready to leave, her home base dissolves like snow on a warm window.
I’m winding up downsizing plans, making the retirement countdown, and preparing for a healthy retirement with my boyfriend, all snug and financed by decades of hard work. She watches my plans unfurl with dizzying speed.
When I drop her off at college and fly away, her childhood’s days will end in the blast of that jet. No longer will I be the mom waiting at home, waiting in the car for the end of practice, or telling her to get to bed. She’ll leap from a moving platform.
Once she leaves, so will I.