Conversation: About those grown up kids of ours

Jim,

  Empty Nest?  Are you referring to what I call "Free at last!  Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we're free at last!" Our youngest just started her freshman year in college in Boston last September so, yes, I am familiar with the concept of empty nest if not the angst.

  Let me wax unkind for a moment: for the sake of a common reference let's compare parents with empty nest anxiety with that room full of nervous Nellies you observed at that awards presentation.  Instead of beaming with parental pride in the accomplishments of their children they communicated a desperate unease so palpable you identified it. These are  the empty nest cohort of the future and for the very same reason you described. They never took the simple pleasure of enjoying their children during a million moments, each one worthy of savoring.  A child is not a stock portfolio to be judged on its short term and long term performance.  You didn't buy or invest in this person; you created this person. Enjoy the magic as it unfolds.  You have a front row seat to the greatest show on earth.  If you can't handle the clowns, don't join the circus.

  Have you noticed that empty nest anxiety is a one-way emotion.  Do you think kids suffer from lost nest anxiety?  Of course they do, it's called growing up.  How did their parents get to this age without experiencing the benefit of the maturity they expect their children to achieve by the age of 23.

  I keep forgetting.  If there weren't fucked up people in the world, you wouldn't have a job. Nor would plastic surgeons and prison guards.

  In my completely unfair and ill informed judgement, the kind of people you're talking about are going to suffer career transition anxiety, life fulfillment anxiety, better front lawn anxiety, where are my grandchildren anxiety and "Is that all there is?" anxiety.  What are we to do?  What are we to do? 

  When I think of my own father, I have to laugh at the men of my generation.  My father was a black hole of resentment who never understood his own emotions.  He revealed himself in silence and explosions, which is to say he never revealed himself to his family or himself. Eight years after he died I discovered through letters he wrote to his sister from Okinawa in October 1945 that when we dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki my dad was on a ship off the coast of Japan awaiting the invasion.  He was 36 years old with two children at home in Philadelphia.  If we hadn't dropped the bomb, if Sgt. Harry DeLeon had been one of the estimated 250,000 American casualties in that invasion, well, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?  Now ask me my political opinion of the morality of America's decision to use an atomic weapon.  I must admit it's become more personal.  Even in death my father is having conversations with me he never would have in life.

  Here's a thought: a question you can ask your over anxious parents. "Can you think of a time when your son or daughter unexpectedly filled your heart with pride."  Don't let them get away with academic, athletic or organized activity achievements. "No, I mean something personal that only you noticed. Something that made you realize what a terrific kid you've raised."

  And if they still don't get it, offer this as an example of what you mean. It was a Saturday and my son, Danny, and I were out doing Saturday afternoon errands.  He was maybe 12. We stopped at a McDonalds on Chestnut Street in West Philadelphia for lunch and when we walked out I saw a panhandler, a haggard gray haired bag lady, begging for change. This was at the peak of the aggressive homeless panhandling "issue" during the depressing Mayor Wilson Goode years.

  I deliberately set my jaw and strode manfully past the old lady, her "Please sir. . ." entreaty barely reaching my ears as I hurried beyond  her voice. Maybe ten paces later  I noticed that Danny wasn't beside me.  I turned and saw the bag lady had stopped him. "Son, I was trying to show you how to effectively ignore these people," I thought as I watched her work him for what seemed like a long time, maybe 30 seconds. At 12 he was already a head taller than this sad old lady. I felt more sorry for him than her.  "Come on, boy.  Walk away. You can't stop for every panhandler you see.  You'll learn," I thought as I watched him reach into his pants pocket and hand her all the money he had -- a crumpled dollar bill.

  The bag lady reacted like some Dickensian character, "Oh, thank you, sir.  Thank you.  Thank you." calling after him as he walked away, clearly embarrassed, especially when he saw that I had witnessed the entire scene. He walked up to me with downcast eyes and said quietly, "I quess you think I'm a sucker."

  I turned away quickly so he couldn't see the sudden misting in my eyes. "I don't think you're a sucker," I said as we walked. "Son, I think your a man." 

Clark DeLeon