In which I try to parent

I have always parented for independence. It has not always been self-evident what that meant in different situations, but the goal has always been the same: to give my child principles for solid decision-making grounded in who she is (and not who I am), within whatever area was age-appropriate. At 2, it was about choice of vegetables or colors, at 5 about clothing (within reason), at 12 about after school activities, and so on.

This is how I ended up dyeing all her clothes black in our bathtub when, at age 4, she decided pink was no longer an option. I wasn’t about to buy her all new clothes, but I had given her a choice of colors, and that was the solution I could come up with. This is also how she cycled through guitar, Japanese, and weaving, before landing on sewing and theater design.

Now that she is a young adult, it is slightly more complicated. I have always had a lot of clarity that she inevitably would make decisions I didn’t agree with. They are her decisions, not mine, and I 1000% trust her to handle whatever the consequences of them will be.

I have also often told myself (and others) that I know, deep in my bones, that her heart must break at some point. In fact, repeatedly. In fact, I almost want that for her, because only when we are open enough that our hearts can break, are we truly present and alive.

And yet.

When my adult child is hurting, I hurt. When she feels overwhelmed, I want to wrap her up in the handmade cotton quilt I sent her off to college with and carry her home to rest. When she is angry, it’s all I can do to not get all up in the face of whomever did whatever it was that made her upset. Every bone in my body wants to shield this child (because however adult she is still my child) from pain.

Pain I know is necessary. Pain I know is inevitable. Pain I know is intrinsically linked to experiencing life at its fullest.

Every phase of parenting has been an adventure. This is the most challenging yet.