Navigating the minefield of conversation with adult children is exhausting. Visits can be going swimmingly when without warning, one word, one statement, even a nonverbal—a look, a facial expression, gesture—is misconstrued as disappointment, disapproval, or condemnation. But, should the same comment or look emanate from a friend, a neighbor, or even a total stranger, it’s not even an issue; it doesn’t raise an eyebrow or even cause a ruffle. Mom says it though? Defenses up, hackles raised, and hyperboles abound. Suddenly it’s as if that adult child is 15 again and defending their lifestyle, their choices, and is incensed that I comment on anything. I’m accused of being always negative, judgmental, disapproving, condescending. And I’m never understanding or happy for them or supportive or kind. And, to make matters worse, I get examples dragged out of the past and flung at me.
I’m exhausted. I can’t be honest with my own children. I have to bite my tongue and lie and hide my feelings. I can’t be worried or mention they may be wrong or even suggest a slightly different alternative solution. I have to watch the people I love more than life itself go down roads fraught with danger and not warn them. It makes me sad. And angry and hurt and unloved because my wisdom and experience, valued and sought after by others, is so hated and shunned by the ones I want most to share it with. And while I am perfectly aware that my standing changed long ago, that I’m no longer their hero, that I fell off that pedestal sometime between kindergarten and puberty, it still boggles my mind, this chasm between me and my adult daughters that fluctuates between impassable and nonexistent. Having grown up with a mother who found it impossible to love, I consider my relationship with my daughters truly special and close and wonderful, like I’m in this sacred place reserved just for me, an inner sanctum, so when somehow I inadvertently violate that space and get demoted it’s that much more heart wrenching.
Of course, those of you who’ve been down this road a thousand times know the solution to this quandary, and you’re probably screaming it at me right now: “mind your own business!” Yeah you’d think that at 65 I’d already know how futile (and downright stupid) it is to offer unsolicited advice to my kids about anything. Or how foolish it is to agree with them when they criticize one of their friends, coworkers, or spouse (because my concurrence is construed as character assassination). Never mind what they’re saying...I can neither agree or disagree. Even nodding is suspect. (And before y’all jump to conclusions, I figured out long, long ago not only to not give child rearing advice regarding my grandkids, but to be extremely wary even if the parents ask for advice). No, my current dilemma is how to listen without judgment, how to respond with neutrality , and how to keep my mouth shut and my face blank.
My hope? That they know how much I love them, how I pray for them constantly, cheer for their endeavors, celebrate their successes and mourn their losses and disappointments. And that they forgive my indiscretions and misspoken words and give me grace, and understand I only speak out of love and worry. And, most of all, I pray they feel to the depths of their beings how much they are loved and cherished, and that I’d gladly give my life for them.
