I'm In a Glass Case of Emotion

In the interest of full disclosure--and this might be especially enlightening for you non-parents reading this--there are definitely times when you want your children to suffer. Not like dismemberment levels of suffering, that's when the authorities start asking questions, plus it's hard on the upholstery. You fantasize about it, of course, but only because you told them eleven times not to stick their fingers in the fan and whatever happens in Instance No. 12, well, that's kind of on them, isn't it?

Even though you don't actually want something that bloody happening in your TV room, what I'm talking about is kind of in the same vein. As an adult who already had to sand-walk their way through the treacherous giant-worm-infested spice fields toward burgeoning personhood, you know what lies ahead, but there's a frontier across which no amount of demonstration or encouragement can prepare them or improve their experience. No matter the good-ness of your intention or whatever level of empathy or talent you've been granted as a parent, there's a whole category of development you can't mediate or even mitigate. I know some of you still tried, though. I saw you standing with your face pressed against the fence trying to coach your five-year-olds through recess at kindergarten, or years later screaming red-faced obscenities at teenaged volunteer umpires at the Little League games. We noticed you, your kid noticed you and I want to assure you, all of us were embarrassed either for you or by you.

As of two days ago, all my kids are drinking-age adults now and I am finding myself running toward the new phase of hands-off parenting of adult offspring. The balance takes some getting used to though, I will admit, but you know that in order to actually learn something, to become a full version of a person, they have to live through some shit. How else are they going to understand that disappointment won't actually kill them, no matter how much you sometimes sort of wish it would?

When they were born, they were, like all human babies, little marvels of evolution but also completely useless, lazy dummies. Compare an infant human to an infant anything else (not even mammals, literally anything, except maybe kangaroos, their newborns are basically bugs) and it will come out the worse. Immobile blobs of need whose only skill is to scream loud enough to alert any potential predator for like two miles. Not only do the have to be taught every single mechanical thing with regard to function, let alone survival, it takes for-fucking-ever. Like two years before they can even walk effectively, and even then it's at a waddling, frankly embarrassingly poor pace. A giraffe baby would have been eaten before noon on Day 1 if that were the case.

But it's that way with everything: walking, talking, eating, cleaning themselves... And then the more esoteric social survival skills like listening, diligence, morality, equity, conversation, economy, empathy, understanding... and if they're under 18 and they get it wrong, it's all somehow your fault, to varying degrees according to the laws of whatever jurisdiction you live in and how much property damage was incurred.

At a certain point you do get to let go of the back of the bicycle seat (another fucking skill you have to teach them, bike riding) and let them balance that stupid machine by themselves, even if they don't realize it at first. And then you have to live with the idea that you've just equipped them with an exciting new way to get hit by cars.

That's the whole objective, though: there are things your parental experience is no substitute for. You can't really teach them how to have relationships with other adults, they just have to go out and get hurt all on their own, which is what we're dealing with here this past week. You can counsel or (more appropriately) just listen, because you know even though the experience is universal it sure fucking feels like you're the only one who has ever suffered to this degree in all of human history when it happens to you, so you have to give them time to ride it out without expressly saying anything as unhelpfully, banally stupid like "you'll feel better in time."

But what you also know (and can't really tell them at first) is each shot to the emotional solar plexus is an opportunity to learn, a building block upon which the foundation of the next relationship will be supported.  Sure, there are things you can tell them up front (try not to get too attached to their dog/cat right away; the stripper isn't really into you, etc.), but nothing sticks like getting stuck with the pointy end of rejection, heartbreak and (ideally temporary) despair.

Is it easy to watch? No, of course not, it's your kid and you don't want to see them cry, or have no appetite or stay in bed looking at old pictures on their phone for 11 hours in a row. But the alternative is to get stuck with a future daughter-or-son-in-law you knew was a bad fit from the get-go, so all you can do is pat them on the back on the neck when they're in the throes of it, nod along when they're venting and try to keep the smirking to yourself.