The Parent Trap

Mom and Dad, early 1980's, Ottawa, Ontario

I left my parents' house to begin my first year of university in early September, 1977. I was nineteen-going-on-twenty years old. I packed my suitcase with all the things I owned and took the Greyhound bus to Waterloo. I think my mother may have driven me to the bus station in Trenton to help me on my way, but I really don't remember.

I have only one clear recollection from that whole day. When I got to the Kitchener/Waterloo station, the driver struggled with my jam-crammed suitcase as he lifted it out from under the bus. He said "you running away from home?"

I nodded, said "yes."

Fast forward a couple of decades.

About ten years ago, when I was working at the City of Toronto, a colleague complained one day about having to complete her daughters' university applications.

"Why on earth are you doing your kid's university applications?"

"Well, you can't really expect them to do them on their own," she said.

I wondered why not. Were her kids developmentally handicapped?

Fast forward to this week.

I was killing time in a room full of people waiting for a meeting with the Minister who'd been delayed by protesters at another meeting. Sitting next to me was a mother with a child headed to university (no word on who had filled in the forms). The mother complained that the university had not e-mailed her that her daughter's tuition was due. Instead they had e-mailed her daughter, which makes sense when you think about who the university has the contractual relationship with. But, said the mother, "everyone knows it's the parents who are paying the tuition. And my daughter didn't tell me I needed to pay until the day the tuition was due!"

People who act as if their children were developmentally handicapped sometimes say that parents these days are "much more involved in their kids lives" than our parents were. 

Also this past week, I was talking with yet another mother facing her daughter's departure to university. She reacted strongly when I told her the story that starts this post about my last day as a permanent resident of my parents' house. 

When I said "from the day I left for university, I considered myself to be on my own," she seemed to also hear "and I never saw my parents alive again." I comforted her with assurances that even though I moved away, I visited home frequently, and called my mom every Sunday for the next thirty years.

This was quite a week for parenting stories. Here's one more. 

Bruce's lovely Auntie Arlie died peacefully on August 30 at the great age of 97. At the reception after her funeral service, I chatted with her nephew, Bruce Schmitt, whose children's children were surging around us, a lively, happy bunch of youngsters. I commented on how cute his grandchildren were. 

"The greatest thing about being a grandparent," said Bruce, "is you get perspective on what matters." Then he recounted for me the details about how, many years before, he had forced his son to sit at the dinner table for three hours until he ate the stone cold broccoli on his plate. 

"It did not matter that he didn't want that broccoli," said Bruce, obviously pained by the ancient memory, "but I couldn't see that at the time and I'd worked myself into a corner that I couldn't get out of. That was so foolish."

Auntie Arlie, by the way, was never a parent herself. But she is remembered most for the limitless, unconditional love she gave to all the people who gathered to celebrate her life on September 3, 2015.

*********************

Another Experiment in Behavioural Science - Part V

Once again, huge thanks to all the great-smelling heroes who are sharing as much as minute of their time to participate. You'll find this week's question here.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen