Perhaps it's just me, but I've found a dirty little secret of the child-rearing game: The only people happier than a young man or woman turning 21 are his or her parents.
Sssssh. Don't tell anyone.
All right, so, potentially I may be the only person expressing this opinion because perhaps I'm the only one holding it.
However, I'm going out on the limb here to suggest it's a lot more universal a feeling than anyone observing teary-eyed parents at family gatherings or reading Facebooks posts would believe.
Truth is, however, having your child turn 21 is the closest to a touchdown dance you're likely to get. Because as soon as that clock hits midnight and your darling, dumpling bundle of previously "young adult-ness" turns into an actual, fully credentialed adult, you are off the hook.
As soon as the page of the calendar turns, the training wheels come off and your progeny gets to wobble away on his or her own. And, again, since we're talking 21st birthdays, wobbling will likely be involved.
For most of us, 21 is the last of the "good" ages, the chronological milestones you're excited about hitting. From here on in, every birthday, particularly the ones ending in zeroes or fives, are tinged with regret or dread. Or both.
No, you haven't become a billionaire, written the Great American Novel or climbed Everest. But that's OK, because now you're one year closer to the end. So, have some cake!
But your teenagers/young adults view 21 the way children view adulthood. Now they get to eat Pop Tarts and chocolate milk (or whatever those might metaphorically represent, but they're definitely not Pop Tarts and chocolate milk) any time they want and no one can tell them they can't. Until it makes them sick and they throw up. Both literally and metaphorically.
And 21 certainly beats 18, another allegedly important birthday where all they found out they could do on their own was vote or enlist.
Now that they've managed to make it from their awkward teen years to their awkward adult years, any dumb thing they do (and since, in the immediate, they are turning 21, so there will be some dumb things, which explains the lines outside tattoo parlors) will officially be "a dumb thing they did." It will NOT be "a dumb thing they did as a result of bad parenting."
In the twinkling of an eye they go from not really wanting but probably still having to ask you if they can do something to almost being legally required not to.
That means you have officially graduated from hands-on parenting. Sure, sure, most of us have felt more like advisers than parents for some time. But 21 closes the deal. At that point, your input moves, officially, from "consenting" to "judging."
Did your child really need that much truck? Well, apparently he thought he did because he bought it and he's going to get to pay for it. She probably knows compound interest is her friend. But if she wants to blow the bonus on a mountain bike that's more expensive than what you paid the orthodontist, well, hopefully she'll consider a mouth guard. Or not, because she gets to do dumb things like that.
From here on in, parents go from being directly responsible for the impacts of every unwise decision to helpfully reminding their offspring, "Well, you are an adult now." And playing Merle Haggard's "Mama Tried" on the jukebox.
All right, so, a bit of qualifying here: I'll always worry about my children. And a somewhat flippant attitude toward their life choices probably masks a certain amount of panic that we've all reach the point on this journey where the only direct control I have over those choices is the application of massive amounts of guilt.
Which I'm not ruling out, but isn't nearly as effective as taking the car keys. Particularly when I don't own the car.
They are all officially grown and they don't need me to tell them what to do with their time or money any more than they need me to read them a bedtime story or check for monsters in the closet.
So I am proud and happy and relieved. But I think I'll hold off on that touchdown dance for just a little while.
Commentary on 09/20/2019