Sara Pic was born and raised in Uptown New Orleans (McMain ‘96!) and is a mom to a (newly—gulp) adult son and twin kindergarteners. She lives in River Ridge with her kids, her spouse, and her dog, Goobie.
RIDING SHOTGUN: PARENTING AN ADULT CHILD
While psychologists and medical doctors may try to reassure parents that human brain development does not follow a rigid timeline, many an anxious parent experiences the profound fear that their infant is not hitting milestones properly. It does not help that those same psychologists and doctors issue us checklists to see if our precious babes are meeting those same goals. But at least the baby is oblivious to what is happening. That’s not quite the case for teenagers and young adults.
A Learner’s Permit
My son was 13 when my spouse and I had our twins. Though we were careful not to “parentify” him (when a child takes on parental duties not appropriate for their age), it was a perfect transition age to allow him to take on greater responsibilities in the home and in his own life. With the increase in responsibility, we also increased his allowance, which naturally set us up to start talking with him about financial literacy and planning. We had him start making one meal per week—a meal of his choosing, he just needed to find a real recipe with a focus on mostly whole ingredients. And we carefully explained to him why all of these added tasks were so important: Because one day he would be in charge of managing his own life, not us. We would be there to support him, but he would be driving the car.
I think I imagined that while the progress would be slow, it would at least be linear and follow a relatively straightforward and generally upwards trajectory, that he would take the tools we so carefully laid out for him and just use them. And—like so many parents before me—I obviously forgot my own teenage years. High school is a battle, even for the most organized of teens. And though I could tell him, “Hey, one day you will be in charge of making your own dentist and doctor appointments,” that is not the same as actually doing it. Eighteen is when the switch flips.
Abdicating the Wheel
Approaching his 18th birthday last April, I knew without a doubt there would be many failures as he became the person primarily responsible for managing his own life. But my spouse and I agreed—we would not “helicopter.” He needed to learn from those failures, or he would just keep making the same mistakes.
April was an interesting month for this parenting experiment, as it lined up with many college deadlines. Less than two weeks after his birthday, I was failing to control the volume of my voice as my spouse and I realized with dread that he had blown multiple deadlines. And then the growing realization that this was it—this is what parenting would be like from now on. I lowered my voice. I looked him in the eyes and said calmly, “This is on you now, from now on. For better or worse. Your actions will determine what happens—not ours.”
A few years ago, a parenting columnist I generally admired wrote about parenting her teenager, and feeling as though her child needed her parents’ hands on the steering wheel more than ever before. I could not disagree more. We all must parent the child we have in front of us, of course, and so no disrespect to that family, but every time throughout high school that I intervened on my son’s behalf was a time he failed to learn how to fix his mistakes himself. I told myself, back when he was a younger teenager, that I was merely acting as his safety net. And I was, it was true. But the stark reality was that in making sure he never failed, he also never learned. Or, more accurately, he learned that I would be the one to fix his mistakes.
Now he was 18, a legal adult, and I was doing him no favors if I was the one picking up the phone to call his advisor, the bursar, or his work manager. (Because, yes, to Gen Z’s seeming horror—sometimes you really do need to make a phone call). And to his credit, he heard me and he did it. He made the phone calls. He got himself on track, enrolled in college, and started the process of selecting courses. He righted the ship, at least for that crisis. There have been more since then, of course. But I’ve noticed that, steadily, over the past year, he will now call me first to confirm his plan of attack and bounce ideas off of me. Yes—sometimes it only happens on the brink of a deadline. But sometimes there are deadlines I am not even aware of anymore, as I am not the one monitoring them all.
Riding Along
Next up—moving to his own apartment for his sophomore year this fall. I’ve been gently reminding him, “Hey, remember, you know how to find recipes and feed yourself! You don’t need to live off of fast food! You know how to keep a budget and keep track of your bills, we practiced all those years.” He nods, a quick “yeah.” We are still something of a safety net—we won’t let him get evicted, for example. But we are also not going to pay his bills for him. Only his hands are on the steering wheel—we’re just there to help with the map.
I think some helicopter parents equate the monitoring of their children with closeness. But surveillance is not the same as intimacy. My son and I have actually become closer with an easier affection now that he knows I trust him to fail, and to pick up the pieces from those failures. And he can trust that we will forever be there for him. He may be an adult, but he is still our child, forever.
illustrations by Victoria Allen
