Benign Neglect
Yes, our kids need us. But as they get older, they need us in less hands-on ways.
Photo of my sad, neglected basil and squash
Yesterday I was walking to the garage and glanced at the overgrown square of my abandoned backyard garden. I felt a bit of shame as I saw the neglected plants, pushed to the back of my consciousness. Looking at the shriveled tomato plant, I made excuses. Life has been crazy. Work has been crazier. Stepping outside in Houston in August is like standing in a febrile mouth.
Through the parched brown leaves and stems, I noticed the basil has withstood the neglect, blooming despite not being watered in months, despite being choked by weeds. As I looked closer, I saw a healthy yellow squash, ready to be plucked from the forsaken vine.
I took the squash from the vine and placed it in the kitchen, ready to be sauteed for dinner. A survivor squash. A champion.
The very day that my son got his driver license was a cold day in February. I had retreated to my evening novel-reading in the bedroom but heard him in the living room talking to his dad. Nosy as I am, I bent my ear to hear that my husband was granting permission to meet his friends at a fast-food restaurant. His very first trip in a car by himself. On Main Street. At 9 p.m.
I marched out to put my hands on my hips, stomp my feet and let them know I didn’t approve. Neither of them cared. You have to let him try, my husband said. You have to let me try, my son told me.
My husband settled into the couch to watch sports, but, lucky for my son, I had him on Find My iPhone and was able to watch him. I saw him head east down the street. I saw him make a wrong turn into a neighborhood, realize it, and get back on track. I saw him turn onto Main Street with its eight daunting lanes and heavy traffic and then drive toward and then pass the fast food restaurant. He passed it! He missed the turn-in!
My blood pressure rising, I then see him turn onto the freeway access road (No! He’s not ready for nighttime freeway driving!) and then into the parking lot of a night club. Drug dealers? Prostitutes? Sex traffickers? My mind began to spin as only mine can do.
Agitated and, frankly, mad at my husband, I dramatically left the bathtub and started getting dressed to go rescue my precious son. “I told you he wasn’t ready!” I yelled out, and “This was a terrible idea!” and “Why do you let them do things they’re not ready for?”
I texted and then called my son, who didn’t respond or answer until I sent the text no teenager wants to see: I’m on my way.
He called me at that point, and I answered before the first ring was done. “Don’t come, it’s fine,” he said calmly. “You’re in the wrong parking lot! You can’t get to Raising Canes without getting on the freeway from there! Stay right there and I’ll come show you!”
“Mom, please don’t come. Lucas is already here, and I’m following him through the parking lot the back way. We’re fine.”
Lucas did come to the parking lot, bringing his vast driving experience of eight months, but it was enough. My son followed in our car, meeting up with a gaggle of teens to have fried chicken and french fries at 9 p.m.
When my kids were little, I had them under my control. I tended to them and watered them. I pulled the weeds from their gardens and made sure they were surrounded by healthy relationships. I provided sunshine and shade and all the healthy nutrients they needed to grow.
There have also been times I thought they needed me more than they did. Looking back, I sometimes reflect on my own parenting behaviors. Did I need them to need me? I don’t think so, actually. Was I trying to “help” when they didn’t need help? I just heard Anne Lamont say “Help is the sunny side of control,” and I certainly didn’t like what she said to me through the podcast, since it surely did hit a nerve that has reverberated ever since.
If we do a good job at parenting, then we can start to step away from the garden a little bit. What’s meant to bloom in our kids’ lives is going to bloom, with or without our tending. I am no less their parent now that they are 14, 17 and 20, but it’s OK and even healthy for me to let them tend to themselves. Even without my constant monitoring, or maybe especially without my constant monitoring, the squash and basil will still grow.
The advice and opinions herein are by no means meant to be a substitute for professional medical advice. Please contact your personal physician, mental health provider or health care professional for medical advice. Opinions are my own.