Nothing about parenting children prepares us for parenting adults.
I did not want to accept that I’m no longer even a consultant unless my son asks for my opinion. He’s an adult male, more successful & responsible than I’ve ever been. It’s his life, not mine.
Yes, I considered discussing this with him; however, he views my cautionary remarks as something an old female hunchback would say to preface a hex. “Be safe“ translates as:
“You’re a moron so be extra careful.”
Or in this instance:
“To avoid destruction via your penis, here are pointers on how I handle mine.“
It’s not as if I’ve never instructed him to protect himself. More than once.
He was about 9 when we had a discussion about the wonders of masturbation and how it could save him from all kinds of difficult entanglements, including women who would steal him blind, neglect his children & spend his child support on cocaine.
Perhaps I was a little extreme but, considering his genetic make-up, not entirely. He does not appreciate my dramatic flair these days.
In my own defense, his maternal cousin spends Saturday nights in a McDonald’s play zone. His wife is bi-polar. Jealousy is the glue that holds them together but they’re sparring for a take home prize no one in their right mind would want to win.
Typical Maury Povich Americana.
This would not make him happy.
But living like Tucker Max in “I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell” makes me cringe a little, no matter how much I loved the book.
Typically I hear the devil’s advocate in my head say, “There are things so much worse.”
F*cking voices make me nuts.
* * * * *
I was way more comfortable when I thought money was my little geek’s #1 motivator & the computer was his girlfriend’s only real competition.
It never fails though, parenting is a competitive sport.
I was ashamed by the realization that the neanderthal part of me is a little proud
my son’s penis is popular.
“He says I’m perfect but he needs to sleep with other girls for the experience or he feels like he’s missing something.”
Honestly, I love this girl but I totally get that thought (she does not). The drudgery of repetition is like a pillow smashed upon my face. As much as I enjoy filet mignon and chocolate truffles, eventually I would suffer from the desire for peanut butter and jelly.
Twenty-six is way too young to sign a contract of ownership (even with a pre-nup).
But what’s a good age? 60?
None of us know what’s going to happen tomorrow, how it will change us, who we will become because of it.
I can’t even commit to MYSELF, to saving my own life.
* * * * *
I used to be so f*cking proud of my desire to own someone, expressed through intense jealousy. There have been times when I even loved the idea of being owned, of living up someone else’s ass. However, lucid and rational thought make it clear both are character flaws.
Still, just one stray emotion can so quickly become
I’m never proud of myself afterwards, I almost always regret it.
Emotional me versus intellectual me, it’s always a struggle. I could argue the case for either.
But I want to get to the place Lynn Grabhorn describes in the aforementioned “Excuse Me, Your Life Is Waiting.”
She states that “the first step in forgiving (and you’re probaby not going to like this) is releasing the resistance that caused the blame in the first place, meaning the ability to say . . . and mean, “Who cares? Who gives a hoot? Maybe the idiot did do something awful, something really tasteless. So what?”
Reality is I’ve done so many incredibly stupid things myself.
And it could always be so much worse.