I just finished a very interesting weekend. I drove two
hours south of Orlando to meet with my 18-year old son and his mom to
discuss college. College!
It wasn’t that long ago that I mastered how to change his
diaper on a dresser top by holding him in place with my foot as I grabbed a
Pampers with my right hand & a body wipe with the left.
And there’s the first slap of reality. It was that
long ago. Seventeen years ago in fact. Somewhere in between I went from a
wide-eyed new dad trying to understand the world of child-rearing to a
mid-fifties aging geezer more concerned about how in the fuck I am going to
retire in eleven years than which college my son is going to attend.
Yeah, I know, that last sentence seemed rather self-centered.
More concerned about myself than my son? What kind of dad am I for thinking
that way?
Well, a pretty good one, if you ask me. Elaboration – Nick
is talented. He is at a magnet art school where 87 percent of the graduates
receive scholarships. Nick is intelligent. He knows what he likes and what he
doesn’t. He doesn’t need to be told what to do anymore…he just needs informed.
And that’s what my role as father has morphed to. I’m an
informant.
And I’m good with that. That’s what I should be. I have to,
and I do, respect that Nick is now an adult (legally at least), and we are now
at a point where he has to make his own decisions. His choice of college is his
decision. Of course, there are limitations; he’s not going to Harvard, and
that’s where his mom and me enter the picture – a sobering dose of fiscal
reality. But it is still his decision. And as he moves on from here, I look
forward to a role of taking his phone calls, slipping him a twenty when he
needs it, buying him a beer when he wants one, and imparting whatever the hell
I have learned on him when he requests it…or even when he doesn’t.
His mom and I had long chats about Nick’s nature and whether
he would be able to handle life at a college where he may not be near either
one of us. She worries about that. I don’t. Because if that happens; if Nick
goes to a school hundreds of miles from either of us, he will be handed daily
doses of reality – his clothes won’t clean themselves. Nobody will cook his
meals. He will have to do those himself.
And he should. Dude needs to learn – just like I did – that they
ain’t shitting when they say to wash white separately. Wearing pink underwear that
was white before washing teaches a better lesson than anything him mom or I
could impart on him. In short, he has to grow up on his own. I will always love
him. I will always be there for him.
But he has to do his own laundry.
On Sunday I met up with some old friends in West Palm Beach
to watch the Cleveland Browns lose a football game. The President of the fan
club just got married with a baby on the way. The vice president of the club
showed up with his wife and two toddlers in tow. They are thirtysomethings with
that wide-eyed look of ‘OMG I hope I know what I’m doing here’ on their faces.
That makes me smile. Been there, done that, got the Diaper
Merit Badge.
Just don’t blink, guys. They grow up fast.
And the undeniable fact of life is, they grow up exactly
when they need to.
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