Children Are Not Our Friends (Until They Are)
By MICHELLE BLAKE When my children were little, I was always a bit baffled by parents who talked about being friends with their children. Maybe I expect too much from my friends, but I like to hang out with people who read chapter books and bathe without being told. I’m big on reciprocity in my friendships — we exchange views and experience and occasionally good advice. I don’t tell you when to go to bed. You don’t tell me when you’re done pooping.As my children got older, the friend idea seemed to get more popular with other parents. Meanwhile, my daughter and I debated what was appropriate school-wear for a 10th grader. And why an adult had to be in the house when her own friends had parties. And why, with our family history, drinking was a lot like sticking a piece of lighted dynamite in your mouth.
I didn’t have long heart-to-hearts with my children about my problems at work or my relationship with their father. I didn’t expect them to drop what they were doing to lend an ear or cheer me up, though I did that for them when I could.
Even as older teenagers, my kids still needed, one might even go so far as to speculate that they wanted, a voice of authority — another service I don’t provide for my friends. They needed to know they were supposed to be home at a certain time. They needed to know that we cared about what grades they were making (not necessarily A’s, but the best they could do) and where they were after sports practice. I don’t mean they asked us to do these things or that they frequently expressed their admiration for our parenting skills. Though I like to be admired occasionally by my friends, being admired by my teenage children was not a top priority (fortunately).
I am admittedly a formalist, a fogey, someone fond of rules and roles in human interaction (not so much in other areas, like music or poetry, but people strike me as fragile and in need of lots of clarity). As an adult, a parent, a college professor, I do my best work when the young people I raise and teach understand our relationship. I’m there to help them, not the other way around. And they don’t owe me anything except simple human respect. Caring for the young is a duty I adore; it is not about reciprocity.
But something lovely has started to happen over the last year. Slowly, without thinking about it, I am becoming friends with my children. I suspect it began when I realized it was none of my business how long my son waited to start looking for an apartment when he was about to begin a new school year in Manhattan. And when I understood that some personal decisions my daughter made, which I may or may not have loved, had nothing to do with me. I try not to offer advice where it isn’t invited, and I find myself asking for their advice more and more often.
My one-handed son (born with a short left arm) has hiked the Appalachian Trail and is now an avid rock-climber. He is also a serious film student and aficionado who introduced me to Bresson’s “A Man Escaped,” now one of my favorites. His older sister has just completed a grueling graduate program. I have watched her face down the demons of self-doubt and exhaustion — old familiars of mine — and come out shining. Last year, she nudged me until I sent out a long-neglected collection of poems I’d written over the past 30 years. I now have a published chapbook.
From my children I have learned persistence, courage and sheer goodness. Maybe because their lives matter so much to me, these lessons seem to stick. Their travels widen my world, their work enhances my knowledge, their interests feed my spirit. I turn to my daughter and son with questions about music, technology, movies, books, art, law and, yes, life. And because of the wise-hearted adults they have become, their answers are often the best I get. It was well worth the wait.
Michelle Blake, a novelist, is working on a book of essays called “Grown Children.”