The Dangers of Letting Go

Apparently, your job as a parent isn't learning to raise your kids, it's learning to let go of them. When you have a college freshman and 8^th grader, that reality is a constant companion. I'm finding as I cope with each, that letting go can be both dangerously easy and easily dangerous.

Shannon and I are not overly protective parents. We have lived with a general philosophy of what doesn't kill them will make them stronger. As long as it didn't have a skull and cross bones on the label, we stood back. We both came by that honestly as children in a world that was a lot less risk adverse. As a teenager, I thought nothing of beating the summer heat of the Sacramento Valley by swimming in the " cow pond" over on the Hamm Ranch or taking a cool drink from the cow trough. Shannon rode her horse everywhere, and she and the gang of kids rode dirt bikes with no helmets and swung from a rotten old rope swing into the concrete lined pond. It's a different world from today where poker is considered a sport, and protective eye-wear is encouraged for ping pong.

Our community used to have a harvest fair in the fall. A combination farmers market and street festival, it was a low-key event that brought our eclectic community together one last time before the cold, rainy winter months. A fixture in the community was an old man, known as "Doc" and his team of draft horses. Doc would drive his team around the old elementary school with a wagon loaded with parents and kids. Nolan, Rayna and I went one year—Nolan was six or seven and Rayna three or four. We met some friends from scouts and the boys ran off to throw darts at balloons or do the ring toss, while I stood admiring Doc's team. People were climbing into the wagon and the horses stood waiting. I held Rayna and she reached out to touch the huge team.

"Is it all right?" I called up to Doc. I grew up around farm animals and knew to always ask.
"Sure", he said.
Rayna leaned away from me and planted both hands on the horse's sweaty, muscular shoulder. The horse didn't even flinch.

"You can put her on his back and take a picture, he won't mind," Doc called down, and Rayna was already lifting up one leg as if she knew the offer was coming.

I pushed my little girl--in a white dress, white stockings and pixie haircut-- on to a horse's back that was higher than my six-foot height. Her little legs stuck straight out from the horse's enormous, round back. I told her to hold on to the hames; the big brass balls at the top of two bars that fit to the neck yolk. I stepped back to get out my camera. I heard someone from the back of the wagon yell "all set." Doc said "get up" and the horses stepped forward, side-by-side. Eight hooves, bigger than Rayna's head, rose and fell, striking the ground hard.

"Don't worry, she'll be fine," Doc hollered over the din of the crowd and noise of the horse and wagon.

I stood there, dumb-struck. My mouth fell open and my mind screamed words, but they stuck in my throat. OH. MY. GOD. My eyes scan the ground, certain I would see her slide between the team and under their trampling hooves. 

The course they took was about half a mile long. I could not see Rayna's face, but I could see she was holding on to the hames and staying on the horse. The team turned a corner and I began to think she was fine as long as they did not break into a trot. At that moment, they did just that. I turned away. I could not bear to watch the horrifying sight of my little girl being trampled to death.

My friend Jon stood with me. He watched the slow-motion tragedy unfold. As the team trotted back to the crowd, Jon urged me to "look, she's fine", his voice betraying the relief he felt too. I turned around and saw Rayna still perched where I left her. Her cheeks were flushed and her little hands were red from gripping the cold brass hames. The horse barely stopped when I was by their side, pulling her down.

"Were you scared?" I breathed.
"Nuh, uh", she said.

I hugged her close, and swore I'd never let he go again. She was neither scared nor interested to do it again. Letting her go was so uncontrolled, so easy. It was so easily dangerous.

Nolan will be home in a couple of days for Thanksgiving break. It's the first time he has been home since he left for school in September, and by far his longest time away. I miss him terribly every day, but not like that first week when I would turn myself, and any other parent with a new freshman, in to blubbering fools. We have filled the gap with texts, calls and Skype. I know what he's doing most days, because one of us reaches out to the other.
 
Shannon and I went to a high school play this weekend—Nolan was a fixture in high school drama. It was a good performance; you can tell the parents whose kids have lead roles, they laugh the longest and clap the loudest. As we walked out of the theater, we didn't go back stage to greet and congratulate the actors, as we always had when Nolan was cast. I was melancholy as we walked to the car as I realized we had let go of an important part of what shaped him and made his high school experience so good. But it didn't last long, and Shannon, Rayna and I went home and made popcorn the old-fashioned way—on a pan on the stove, with real melted butter—and watched Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. In late September I could not have done that.

Letting go of the teenager he was is getting easier. It's always easier to let go of one thing when a better thing is in view. Letting go can get dangerously easy, the result is you drift apart and take years to work your way back.

Then there is Rayna. As a 14-year-old, her job is to begin to be her own person; she is in the beautiful, wonderful, scary, terrible, confusing time of forming her personality. And she is in no particular hurry. She is the most comfortable teenage girl I have ever met. She seems to already know who she is and is perfectly content to let life come at her, and change her, at its own pace. She is brave and incessantly cheerful. She takes what comes for what it is in the moment. She has always just grabbed life by the hames and went along for the ride. This time though, letting go is dangerously easy.

Letting go is difficult. Maybe the hardest thing as a parent is assessing whether it is dangerously easy or easily dangerous.

Life without Training Wheels

No matter how good a student your kid is in grade and high school, there's always that transition into college that you worry about. Will they freeze up and stress out or will they OD on the freedom? It's kind of like riding a bike without training wheels for the first time. A little wobble is manageable, but if you don't grip too tight, nor yell "look ma, No hands!" that first ride is often a success.

Shannon and I have had a simple philosophy when it comes to Nolan and Rayna and school work:

• Give your best; sometimes that's an A, sometimes it's a passing grade
  
• You get out what you put in
  
• This is your only job, do it right
  
• This is your life, we aren't living it for you
  

That seems simple, but they are apparently harder than we adults might imagine for a kid to live.

Like me, Nolan was and is a dreamer. It's a beautiful thing to have vivid imagination that is capable of seeing what your future is going to be like. It is an unfortunate and frequent casualty of growing up, that the dreamer in us gets squashed by reality. I never wanted to squash that part of his being. But living through multiple lay-offs and seeing the ugliness and injustice that comes with life—it's hard not to say wake up kid and smell the coffee!

We were amazed at the layers of detail that, at five or six years old, Nolan would use to describe his future—the home or the cars or the job that he would have. He'd describe inventions or environments that he would create. Shannon and I were convinced he would become an architect or an engineer, he was so creative. The push and pull and testing of boundaries is what all of kids do to mature. Somewhere around the 6^th grade Nolan's dreaming turned a tad self-centered and materialistic. I can recall a particular conversation as we drove up the drive way in our 1979 pumpkin colored Volvo with 279,000 miles on the odometer:

He gushed,
"I can't wait to get my license, I'm going to have a Porsche 911, and an Audi a4"

"Wow, those are expensive cars..."

"Yeah, I'm going to have a heated garage…"

"How are you going to pay for that?" I said, baiting the reality trap.

"Oh, I'm going to do commercials, or act on a show like Friends—they make like a million dollars a show"

"Uh huh. " I waited until we got in the house to make my move

In addition to the dreamer-gene, Nolan inherited my procrastination gene. It's in middle school that kids get their first taste of freedom. Things like—self-study math—the educational equivalent of the Le Brea tar pits for kids who believe there is always enough time to do the fun stuff first, then whip out the home-work. No sweat. Piece of cake. My mom recalls a particular Christmas break when my approach to self-study math was revealed. It was a particularly cruel, but useful teach technique to send semester grades out a day or two before the long, two-week break. For some reason my mom got home from work as the high school cafeteria manager before I did that Friday. She was ready to make her move when I walked in the door, ready for two weeks of goofing off.

"come here." This was Mom's way of inviting you to a conversation and your first clue it was too late to run

"what?" I said innocently

"Your report card came"

"Lets see, how'd I do? Miss Becker said I did pretty good on my book report", she raised it out of my reach.

"I've asked you every night for a month and you said you didn't have any math home work?" I could see dark shadows fly across the room. My mouth went dry.

"You have an F in math. I called Mr. Bennett and he said you have not turned any assignments in since Halloween." Uh oh.

Mom used a form of aversion therapy—she'd make you wish you'd never do whatever she caught you doing (or not doing) by giving you so much of whatever the vice was that you'd avoid it like the plague. It worked with cussing, smoking cigarettes and home work. At the end of Christmas break I could do multi-function equations in my head—"catching up" eight hours a day for two weeks will do that for you. I didn't miss much homework after that, but I procrastinate to this day. As a Dad, I've taken a different approach. I've tried to show Nolan and Rayna the consequences of not making the right choice. So when Nolan and I walked into the house I asked:

"So what happens of you can't be an actor on Friends?"

"I dunno,"

"Well, you better have a plan."

"Dad, I'm only in sixth grade."

"Yeah that's true, but things like your grades in math now, will affect what jobs you can have", I reasoned

"I hate math, I'm never gonna use this stuff", he echoed over the generation.

"Well, if you don't get good grades now, you won't get good grades in high school. Then you won't get in to college. Then you'll be pumping gas at the chevron." He looked back at me wondering if I was serious or joking; I had a knack for argument-ending finales.

Nothing important ever gets hashed out in single discussion. We had more, "its your life, if you want to pump gas, fine" kinds of discussions. But it wasn't long after that Nolan began going to the Saturday math sessions. At first it was to catch up on some home work that had gone undone; then it was to improve his scores. But he did it on his own. We edited papers and review math, but stopped nagging him through it. It was some time in high school when Shannon and I realized we hadn't even been editing papers any more. Nolan's grades were good, not honor roll good, but he was talking some AP courses.

He had taken his own training wheels off.

As Nolan entered University life, we were anxious to see how he would do: would he succumb to the freedom or get stressed out. He had acquired the self starting habits in high school, but would the pressure or freedom take over? As his first mid-terms and papers came back we were thrilled to see better grades than in high school even.

Now its Rayna's turn. Mr. Lopez, the same math teacher as Nolan, still holds Saturday math sessions. She attended her first Saturday session a couple weeks ago. Like her father and brother, it all started with some missed homework. Rayna is different than Nolan; she is not motivated by the same things. I'm not sure what they are yet.

One of the tricks in parenting is keeping several things going at once—too much focus on one, and the others crash. Nolan's training wheels are off and he is doing very well. Now it's time to help Rayna with her's.

Comfort Food

I had a treat recently—a non-travel Friday—so I cooked dinner.  With a chicken roasting in the oven, I wrote on my Facebook page that we were about to enjoy a comfort food dinner.  Shannon, Rayna and I were just about to sit down to eat, when a text message from Nolan arrived on my iPhone.

“Dad, that dinner sounds sooo good, everything here is covered in cheese!”

“It is good,” I replied and sent an 8 megapixel photo of a heaping pile of mashed potatoes and gravy, kale and a mouthwatering chicken thigh. 

“you poop.”

A few minutes later, I sent another shot of a clean plate with a chicken bone and some gravy smudges.  I’ve been told I have a wicked sense of humor.

My mom was a high school cafeteria manager, so I understand about industrial food.  Let’s face it, school food then as now is not about inspired cuisine.  There’s a reason for chili fries—you can cook the fries hours earlier and then throw some hot chili on and you’re good to go.  Or cheese pizza—unless you're lactose intolerant, most people under 21 will eat it and what’s left can be reheated the next day.

I had my share of that stuff.  When I left for college I had to fend for myself—no three-squares-a-day meal plan for me.  And since I had a full time job wrangling sheep, I quickly learned about the one pot meal with the help of an ancient crock pot I got at a yard sale.  My second week of school I called my mom for advice on what I could make in my fifty-cent crock pot; once it stopped smoking. 

“hey mom, the hot plate burned out”, so I bought a crock pot, I began.

“you boiled a pot dry didn’t you?” she guessed.

“Yeah, some sheep got out in the middle of dinner and headed for campus”, I’d been boiling a dozen eggs at the time, and it took me and two sheep dogs an hour to get the escapees off the lawn in front of the administration building.

“Well, you could make beans, get a ham hock and some navy beans; put it on medium and in two or three hours you’ll have dinner.”

“That’s it?”

“yes, it’s cheap and you should get a couple meals”

Well, I reasoned that a couple ham hocks and a lot of beans would make a lot more than a couple meals.  I was in business, something besides hardboiled eggs and fried egg sandwiches.  My parents came down the following weekend for the one visit they made.  On the table in the corner of the sheep barn office was my little crock pot; in it bubbled a nice little batch of beans.  It was about noon.

“oh, you made some beans”, my mom observed lifting the lid of the crock and releasing the warm smell of smoked ham.

“Yep, Sunday night,” I beamed with a look of proud self-sufficiency.

“Two batches in one week?” she started to look skeptical.

“Nope, just one, all week.  I made it Sunday and just kept it warm.”

“You what? You could get food poisoning.”

Before I could say Ramboullet, my crock and its steamy goodness where in the bottom of a trash can. There were other culinary close calls my freshman year involving attempts at menudo at Christmas time and a pigeon sausage in Meats Processing class using “locally sourced” meat. Mom never knew about those, and she didn’t visit again.  So maybe a meal plan for Nolan is a good idea, even if it is a little cheesy.

On the Friday that I snapped a picture of a plate of home cookin’ it had been four weeks since we dropped Nolan off at school.  Four weeks is a long time to go cold turkey—not just with a different diet, but the ritual of eating together.  For lots of cultures sharing a meal is sharing your life.  Since Nolan and Rayna were little, we have eaten together as a family more often than not.  Four or five times a week it has been a touch-point, an opportunity to reconnect. 

We visited Nolan two days later and took him out to eat.  It was a Mexican place; good, but not remarkable.  We all talked through the whole meal.  We all needed the sustenance of the family.  It wasn’t just the comfort food of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes Nolan hungered for; it was the company of his family, and the ritual of a shared life.

We Need to talk

In the space of a week, two college students have perished—one, because of bullying, took his own life. The other perished after leaving a party the first weekend of school.  His body was recovered from the bay and the police don’t yet know what happened.  One in New Jersey and one in Washington; unrelated.  No doubt there are others, but it would be heartless to react that these are just two losses of many that occur in college and tut-tut them away from our minds. 

I cannot fathom what the parents of these two young men are going through.  Their loss and grief must be bottomless just now. I need to say something.

So, Nolan, we need to talk. 

First, you and Rayna are the most important thing in my life, period.  You can’t really know what I mean until you have kids, though I know you to be a very empathetic person.  I’ve tried to never pass up an opportunity to tell you this, but if for some reason it hasn’t struck you, I love you.

Second, if you are ever in trouble or have a troubled heart or mind, call home.  Nothing you can do, no situation will befall you that will change how I feel about you or what I would do to protect you.

Third, be safe.  There are so many things that can be undone, death is not one.

Some other thoughts:

Be thoughtful of others feelings.  Hurtful words and acts can have consequences beyond your imagination---people commit suicide because of things others have said.

Respect yourself. Others will treat you as you treat yourself.  If you respect yourself, and treat others with respect—it is unlikely you will be mistreated.

Always have a buddy.  I hope you will continue to share your feelings with mom and me—it has been the true nirvana of being your parents—if you find there is something you can’t tell us, tell a friend.  You need to develop that friendship now.

Be someone's buddy.  You are a good listener, but develop the ability to sense when something isn't right for your friends and let them know they can trust you to help them.

Know when you’ve had enough and stop before that.  Whether it is fun, lack of sleep or alcohol—too much is not a good thing.  I know you know what happens—my advice is to know when to stop.

Call home often. Stay safe.

Thanks for listening-you have always been good at that.

I love you, Dad.

I Love You Too

When Shannon and I were first married we made a pact that we would not go to sleep mad at one another.  Young lovers do things like that—make covenants they have no idea how hard they are to keep, but bye and large we have done it. 

It doesn’t happen often, but I can say or do some things that are pretty insensitive. Sometimes I say something so monumentally asinine, I need only the IQ of a cucumber to realize I have forfeited the match.  No matter how right your position, “I’m sorry” is the best and only response.  And maybe a foot- rub.  Yes, with the scented oil.  Or roses.

No, I’m talking about the slow burning ember.  Those can lie just under the surface and spark up weeks later in a discussion over whether to have romaine or arugula in the salad.  Early in our marriage I learned that if I wanted to honor my commitment and get some sleep, I needed a way to tease those embers out into the open.  So, I honed my talent for sensing when something isn’t quite right in the fabric that is holding two people together—lovers, coworkers or parents and children.  For the family I have a special tool:  I love you.

Those three words are like a miners gold pan. Now don’t misjudge my intent—If I say those words I mean them; but I’ve discovered a person’s response is telling.  I can reveal little nuggets of hidden truth in their reply.  A sensitive and discerning ear can hear so many things.  Anger. Fear. Uncertainty. Loneliness. Despair. Affection. Resolution. Reconciliation. Love. 

By dent of this utterance, I’ve done my part for domestic harmony.

So, Shannon and I end most every parting with “I love you”, (unless we’re at Wal-Mart  and I’m going to check out the hygiene section).  It is not a throw-away, it affirms that our bond is secure while we are apart and we will refresh that bond soon.  Even a short phone call, “I’m on the 4:30 ferry. Love you. Bye”has the power to afirm and connect. 

I admit for a long time, I feared I would end a call with someone, not my wife, with an “ok, love you, bye.”   You have to guard it becoming a rote habit; habits have a way of assuming their own life.

“Ok, Tim, our meeting with the City is set for next Tuesday.”

“So you can get the evaluation matrices ready?”

“Sure, I have two started.”

“Alright, see you tomorrow”

Ok. Loveyoubye.”

“....Uh, what’s that?”

“Huh? Oh, I said ‘wear a tie.’ You know how the city is?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

True story.  Glad that’s behind me. But I still say it.

Whenever I part with Nolan or Rayna it’s the same, I say those words.  It’s been kind of fun to see them reply without appearing to hurt their teenage independence. It is very much a meaningful statement of my feelings for them; and it is a probe to test their emotional state.  I love you, also asks “how we doin’?”

Recently, I texted Nolan about something or other.  He’d had a week that he was glad to have behind him. I closed with the test:

“…ok, we will call you tomorrow about coming up to visit. Have fun tonight.  Love you, Dad.”

“haha, you bet.  We should go to the Mongolian grill.”

“love you too.”

Love you, too.  It told me everything. An unfinished thought that he didn’t want to pass unsaid. It said we were doing good.  It said he was doing good.

We’re getting the hang of this.

His and Hers

The arc of time that describes the year that leads up to, and into, those first few months in college is all about you.  Not you and me: you, The Graduate. 

If you want to survive that as a parent, you had better have achieved a fairly high level of competence in other aspects of life—particularly marriage and work. Our little 17-year-olds can be black-holes for attention—not because they want it, because they need it.  So much of our energy is focused on their success.  As I look back on this year, several analogies come to mind:

A Formula 1 pit crew

Mission Control at Cape Canaveral

The President’s Secret Service Detail

I count myself fortunate that Nolan, in fact his whole circle of friends, are a darn good bunch of kids.  But let’s face it, in order achieve lift-off they seem need a support team. They need advice, coaching, protection—sometimes they just need a new set of tires and some fuel in the tank.  And then, in a cloud of smoke, they are gone.

As I watch the F1 that is Nolan get up to speed, I wonder how the rest of the “crew” is faring.  In particular I am considering how our next F1 driver, Rayna, the one waiting in the wings, is experiencing this.

He is swerving and braking, shifting and accelerating as he works to gain control.  She is still on the kiddie track with big protective bumpers. But she is watching it all and taking it in.

When Shannon and I were first married, we took a winter trip to Florida.  We visited Cape Canaveral to see the space shuttle.   It was so impressive to see the shuttle sitting on the launch pad—there was a latent power you could just sense.  A few miles away, in an enormous hanger the other shuttle was being readied.  As the bus dodged armadillos on the road out of the compound, I thought about those two shuttles in juxtaposition.  It struck me how different it must be for the two crews—one in the frenetic throes of a launch, the other methodically inspecting, repairing and preparing.  Life is like that, part of your focus on performing, part on preparing.  His and hers.

The trick for me is to watch and enjoy his race and not lose sight of her long preparation to get behind the wheel of her own life.

Boohoo to Woohoo

Since I began writing my thoughts about the journey to empty nest-hood, I have talked with colleagues and friends who have all said they have or are experiencing similar emotions of loss.  It is an interesting phenomenon. Oh, they’re happy that their kids are embarking on this new, wonderful life experience; but they are also burdened with intense sadness—they use the word grief.  ‘scuse me?  I hadn’t heard people associate grief with this happy event before.    Did I suddenly tap into peoples’ emotions?  Have I given them permission to show their grief as I mopped through my day? 

Grief is a pretty strong word.  It carries an unambiguous meaning, and people don’t typically misuse it.  So I am wondering what it is we grieve.  Our kids aren’t dead—the texts and Skype calls can bear witness to that.  So why the long faces?  

When Nolan was just two or three years old we lived in the Sierra foothills in California.  It was five of us back then too, me, Shannon, Nolan and two boxer dogs.   We had the dogs first, thinking, since neither puppies nor kids come with an owner’s manual, if we could manage to not ruin the dogs, maybe we could chance a kid.

One warm summer evening about 15 years ago, life as we enjoyed it came to a sudden halt.  I’ll spare the grisly details; but our older dog, Banner, had to be euthanized.  Banner was not old; he was barely four years old.  He was fun loving, but he was the serious one.  He was the “achiever.”  He was the classic, first child, and that night Shannon and I made a gut wrenching decision to end the life of our “first son”.  All the talk about being humane, while true in my logical mind, was little consolation to my suddenly shocked and torn heart.

We were devastated.  Not like, “wow, that was sad.”  We had lost a child.  After a week, we sought grief counseling with our, then, pastor. She helped us to understand the emotion of grief and how it is so different than just being sad.  She helped us comprehend that when you love someone deeply, a child or a dog, their loss leaves the same big hole. She showed us that a big part of what we grieved was not the loss of companionship, but the loss of what could have been; of “unfinished business.”

We are now a little over a week into college.  Nolan has survived through a weekend.   I’m pretty well past the Bohoo, but I’m not quite to Wohoo either. 

I think I am beginning to grasp why the act of walking away from the dorm that first Sunday was so damned hard.  The son I created in my mind died.  The one in my mind and the real Nolan bore close resemblance, but they are not the same.  Nolan, the person, continues—he was and is.  The one in my mind was not ageless, but timeless.   I would always have another day with him—enough time to do the “bucket list” that all parents have before their kids are all grown up.  That day, that Nolan ceased to exist. 

The hay was in the barn, as we used to say.  What I didn’t get to do—or do enough of—with him as a boy is done.  Sure there are hikes and fishing trips, and vacations and movies and myriad other things that we will still do.  But he will do those with me as a young man.  The terms of the deal have a nuanced, but palpable difference, easier felt than explained. 

In this moment, my image of Nolan is blurred.  Just a fraction out of focus is the other Nolan.  Each day that Nolan gets a little more out of focus—a little left behind.  I see the real Nolan in clear relief and in a new and impressive light.  I like what I see... I love what I see.  I grieve for the Nolan of my mind; I will regret those things in my bucket list I didn’t do with that Nolan. But now I think I understand why the word grief came so easily from my mouth that Sunday afternoon.  And with that, I think I can a hear tiny little "wohoo."