Lalalalalalala

I read somewhere that it helps to seek out others who are going through the same experiences you are.  Seems like everyone I know under the age of 60 has a kid who left for college, so there’s no shortage of opportunities for shared experiences lately.  I just can’t figure out if these shared experiences are supposed to give us strength or rob us of the one defense we have—ignorance of what’s really going on.

About a year ago, little Vashon Island was thrust into a wrenching community discussion on grinding.  Depending on your age and world-view, grinding is a vulgar and provocative or creative and innocuous dance where teenage butts and groins meet.  That was nothing.  Less than a week into this journey and I’m hearing about some experiences I’d rather not “share.”  Experiences that involve sex, tattoos, binges, and pepper spray.   Pepper spray?  I never thought I’d equate the freshman semester with bear season.  Let’s bring back the grinding, huh?

Shannon and I tried to prepare Nolan for the different universe that is college.  We focused on the usual: professors, study habits, career counseling, life balance, and finances.  How do you prepare them for more practical things, like the meaning of a sock on the dorm-room door knob?  Or why you never leave a beverage unattended at a party and then resume drinking it.    

Though my parents lived through a period in history where grade school was a distant priority, second to family survival and high school an extravagant luxury, I heard plenty of stories that could have come from the scripts of Animal House.  I’m no prude.  I did my fair share of bizarre, irresponsible and, frankly, dangerous things during college.  I also found a direction for my life career (unfortunately it had nothing whatsoever to do with my major), and met my lover and life partner (fortunately, she exercises better judgment).  So I conclude two things: college is not the culprit and it is survivable.

But, how do we as a species acquire the knowledge to escape the most serious consequences? Are there some long-dormant genetics at work that allow us to experience close brushes and survive?  Is there some vestigial cave-man instinct that says “it’s OK to eat a little of that, but not too much”?

As I listen to the experience of others and recall my own, I ponder: Did we do enough in raising Nolan to prepare him for this gauntlet of stimulations, temptations and dangers? 

Probably not.  We couldn’t have, maybe shouldn’t have.  Like me, Nolan was always an experiential learner; he had to see for himself. 

“Nolan that’s hot, don’t touch."

Nolan, don’t touch.”

sssssss.

“Oowwww”.  

“I told you not to touch.”  

It was a scenario that repeated itself endlessly.   Maybe Nolan’s life approach to learning will keep him out of harm’s way.  Maybe those experiences are what awaken the cave-man gene.  If not, well maybe he’ll get a good education with a few classes in the school of hard knocks, too.

I just know that some morning in the future I’ll be sitting on the ferry and checking my email.  I’ll see one of Nolan's emails or facebook posts from late the night before; it will be a Facebook post about a “sock on the door knob”.  I’ll just have to put my fingers in my ears, say lalalalalalala and hope for the best.  Because, I can’t always be there to tell him, “don’t touch that" anymore.