From the Editor’s Desk: Family (Premium)

My mother has said two things to me that are undeniably true. I wish there was more, in a way, but I’ll never forget either of them.

The first isn’t of much interest, but it arrived when I was a little kid, under 7 years old because we still lived in Hyde Park and hadn’t yet moved to Dedham. She told me that I should make lists because I never remember anything. Whether this was an early sign of ADHD is beside the point now, but probably. And it is embarrassing to me that I rarely acted on this all-too-true observation in a meaningful way until recently.

We were sitting with friends we see regularly at a bar in Pennsylvania late last summer when another couple, one we all knew but didn’t see regularly, came in. Patty, one of the friends we were sitting with, immediately asked them how their daughter, who she named explicitly, was doing. They had a brief exchange and then the couple sat down.

I was staring at Patty. “How the hell did you remember their kid’s name?” I finally blurted out. “I didn’t,” she said. “I can’t remember names to save my life. So I keep notes on my phone.” She then showed Stephanie and I those notes, which included the names of our kids, too. Genius. Obvious, yes. But also genius. And since this exchange, I’ve done the same: I have a notebook (or whatever it’s called) in Notion called Names. I’ve used it extensively on this trip to Mexico, some of the names here are challenging.

The second of my mother’s indelible observations was about parenting. This is a sore spot for me because my parents are never going to make any “best of” lists when it came to parenting. As I’ve written in the past, they are what I think of as negative influences, object lessons in how not to do things properly. So when she offered me the following tidbit while my own kids were still young, I wasn’t particularly receptive.

“You don’t understand,” she told me. “It doesn’t matter how old your kids are, you’ll always be their parent. You’ll always worry about them and wonder whether they’re safe. You will do anything for them.”

As the kids grew up, I observed parents around us, including friends of ours, behave in ways that we found troubling. There were the “my kids would never do that” parents who frustrated us with their stereotypical behavior. But also people we liked and respected who turned into mental wrecks, obsessively helicopter parenting their children throughout high school and beyond. This seemed ridiculous to us. Our jobs as parents, as Stephanie and I saw it, was to prepare them for the real world. And part of that means letting go.

My mother was right. But you can’t let go.

All you can really do is try to stamp down that demon rising inside of you, the well-intentioned but ill-conceived desire to just make everything right for your kids when things go south. That was true when they were little. And it’s true now when they’re both ostensibly adults in their mid-20s. It never goes away.

I was reminded of this when they both visited us here in Mexico City recently. That they wanted to do this, and do this together, still boggles my mind. But I love how much they love each other. And that they want to spend time with us. I’ve written this before, but it’s worth repeating. I love them because they’re my kids, but I like them as people, and like to be around them. They’ve always been good people. I can’t take much credit for that, my wife does most of the work, really. But it makes me happy.

Neither of them is perfect. Both of them have issues, medical and mental health issues among them. Mark has a great job that’s not related to his degree, and that bothers him for reasons I understand but also disagree with. Kelly is still struggling to finish college so she can–wait for it–continue with more higher education. That’s OK, I always joke, we have infinite money. Just be you. And then I die a little inside.

Because that’s what parenting is. Dying inside every time something is wrong. Wishing it was possible to make it right and then pushing down that biological or mental imperative to just do it all for them.

We were reminiscing with the kids about Daisy, the dog that Kelly, our daughter, insisted that we get back in 2017, the dog I insisted privately to my wife that we not get. I knew Kelly would stick us with this dog when she went off to college a few years later, and that this responsibility would always be on us regardless. But my wife convinced me it would be OK, and Daisy became part of our lives, part of our family. By the time she passed away about 18 months ago, we were close, and as she edged into oblivion, I started breaking my own rules by feeding her special treats of human food, which she was forbidden, when no one was looking. After Daisy finally passed away, Stephanie told the kids I’d been doing this. I didn’t know she knew. But then my kids realized I was just a big softy despite the tough talk.

Except, of course, they both knew that already. By simply following the rules and being good people, they never ran afoul of me or really needed to be punished for anything serious. I treated them as adults before they had earned it, and they rewarded me by not screwing up. But they knew. They still know. They go through their mother for most things. But when they really need something, they come to me. I am the path of least resistance every time.

The kids had flown to Mexico City together. And for that to happen, Mark, our son, had had to get up in the wee hours of the morning so he could fly to Charlotte, where his sister joined him so they could take the same flight, sitting next to each other. Kelly is afraid of flying, and just having Mark with her helps.

When it was time for them to fly home, I asked Mark about his layover in Charlotte on the way home. He would have to kill over 3 hours there, he told me. That sucks, I replied, wondering whether there was a better solution. “It’s worth it,” he told me. “I know this is better for Kelly.”

Well. There you go.

We were out eating when my wife realized the kids could check in to their flights home. They had had exit row seats–with no one between them, always great–on the way to Mexico. But they only had normal coach seats for the trip home. Kelly asked why they couldn’t upgrade to exit row seats, so my wife asked how much that would cost. (And by “cost,” I mean “cost us,” since we pay for all that.) $70, Kelly replied. To which my wife said, “That’s why,” putting an end to that conversation.

That was my cue. I told the kids to upgrade to exit row seats. And then I handed each my phone in turn so they could type in my credit card number from Proton Pass. I looked over at my wife, who was only trying to do the right thing, I get that. And I said, “This is about $200 worth of extra cost. It’s worth it.”

And it was worth it. It was worth it because Mark was about to face a horribly long day, 11 hours door-to-door, so that he could be there for his sister. And that is, to my mind, priceless. Stephanie agreed. And so they flew home a little more comfortably, each enduring that day of travel, as the two of us charted their progress, unable to get any work done, in a weird funk. Because the kids were gone, again. That’s what happens.

I watch my sister’s kids, roughly the same age as mine, bicker and yell at each other and their parents, and it makes me feel weird. I don’t get it. But what I do get is that something right happened with our own kids. And for that, I’m appreciative. It could be worse, so much worse. And whatever issues they do have are … whatever they are. It could be worse.

And that’s pretty much family in a nutshell. My role is the hard ass, supposedly, but I’m also the one feeding the dog under the table while he thinks no one is looking. And I’ll do whatever those kids need. All they have to do is ask. And sometimes not even that.

My mother was right.