TRIBAL RITUALS, CLUCKING LIKE A MOTHER HEN AND THE PARENT-FRIEND PROGRESS CHART…AMONG OTHER THINGS
Tribal Rituals in the Grocery Store
November brings the sleep challenges of Daylight Savings, storefronts festooned with premature Christmas decorations and, for parents of college students, the eager anticipation of having all pups home. The return of the college kids is like a reverse migration on the African savannah—all the cute little impala heading back to the nest instead of to a far off watering hole.
A time-honored part of the frantic preparations includes scouring all the grocery stores for said children’s favorite foods (Murphy’s Law says that of the veritable cornucopia of bounty you provide, your kid will want the one thing that you didn’t get…but I digress).
It’s comforting to run into parents whom I’ve known since our kids were in elementary school engaged in the very same ritual. With most, I exchange warm hugs and catch-up conversations about our children—I ask with genuine interest what’s his/her major, and marvel can’t believe they’ll be graduating soon.
Others, I take some pains to avoid because they take me back to a time when other parents loomed large in my psyche, and their shenanigans could negatively affect my energy. I deftly hid from one such mom just the other day. I remembered her well—queen of the humble brag (before we had such a term), the one who tucked a dog-eared copy of Harry Potter under her kid’s arm on the first day of kindergarten as an intimidation tactic, when most of our kids were still reading Bob Books (and, as it turns out, so was hers).
I spotted her in the deli section and weaved and turned through frozen produce and dairy until she boxed me in at the broccolini. As I expected, she used the opportunity to remind me that her offspring is extraordinary. She said the words “Goldman Sachs” multiple times. Some things don’t change, I thought, and even that notion brought with it its own sense of comfort and nostalgia. After all, this mom and I shared a common history. She was part of the stream that helped shape the edges of the rock that is me.
Meeting Your Adult Child
It's been over two years since I dropped my eldest off at college at which time I was a maudlin sack of nerves and heightened emotions. Can I say wholeheartedly that it gets better? The dagger-in-the-heart feeling does dissipate. But parenting from afar does require a new set of skills. The big reveal is that at the other end of college drop-off, you get to meet your adult child.
I’m convinced that there’s no better place to get to know this new avatar of your kid than in their own environment. I was fortunate to attend my daughter’s 21st birthday party on her college campus earlier this fall. I took it as a win that she wanted me to attend.
Being on a college campus with young adults is exhilarating. Yes, there’s energy but, more than that, there’s possibility. It’s a heady idea—that the best is yet to come. It’s too early to know if you’ll have to reframe your dreams, settle for less, or if your dreams will elude you entirely. That’s probably why they all look so damn good.
Let’s Talk About Me
The youngsters I met were excellent conversationalists. They were engaged and curious. Curiosity, in particular, seemed to be a hero trait. After all, they are students. It’s their job to seek and absorb information. I feel like this quality dulls significantly over time, obliterated, perhaps, under the weight of responsibility. Middle aged people who retain their essential curiosity are definitely unicorns.
The youngsters used phraseology like that’s fire and that’s valid in response to my points. I especially like that’s valid. I started to believe that I had social relevance in this group of 20 somethings. In the post-party debrief in my daughter’s apartment, I decided to take a minute to focus on me.
“Do you think I came off too much as the mom. Like giving mom vibes?” I asked my daughter.
“But you are the mom,” she replied factually.
“I mean like doddering, clucking like a mother hen?” I asked.
“I mean, again, you are the mom. What’s wrong with coming off like a mom?” she said.
I realized the folly of my question. There was no possible way my daughter could understand the hopefulness with which I thought I might pass for another version of myself. You are the mom. Of course, I am, but sometimes one longs to be more.
Children as a Redo
I encouraged/begged my college kid to join the campus newspaper. She did, and it makes my heart swell with pride. It’s one cool college activity among many, but, for me, it’s more than that. I was determined to join the newspaper when I went to college. In fact, I promised in my college essay that it if I were to be admitted, it would be my raison d’etre. But after the freshman informational meeting, I panicked, let imposter syndrome rule the day and never tried to write for the paper again. Although it's not (entirely) why we have them, kids provide an awesome chance at a redo.
I am haunted by the work of Japanese artist, Chino Otsuka, who in her series, Imagine Finding Me, photoshops her adult likeness into childhood photos of herself. Otsuka admits that she is intrigued by time travel. In some photos, she appears to be doing exactly that, perhaps hoping for a redo of her own. In other photos, her presence is more parental, protective, telegraphing I got you.
Poignantly, she introduces the series with the poem:
If,
again
I have a chance to meet,
there is so much I want to ask,
and so much I want to tell
The Parent-Friend Progress Chart
My adult child and I are dancing along the edge of parent and friend, trying to figure out what it all means.
We walk along the parent-friend progress chart. I share intuition on some of the friends she has introduced me to—five steps forward. She offers me insightful advice on her younger sister—five steps forward. I share details of my menopause journey—five zillion steps backward…and so it goes. There is clearly a line. We’re just learning where it is.
From my car window, I watch a young mother of a toddler swing her child upwards from the ground and plant her on her hip. The scene is evocative. I remember the sensation well, the soft but firm landing, the weight on my body, the sense of moving as one entity. I remember my own strength, the ability to wield a heavy toy with my free arm, my movements swift and sure footed, my security in the knowledge that someone or something would have to literally cut through me to bring harm or hurt to my kid. When you let your child go, you lose this sensation in its literal sense. But therein lies the leap of faith. You are still doing it figuratively. You are the mom.
I am hoping to be in touch with more regularity. Please subscribe and share. Happy Thanksgiving to everyone Stateside.
Xo
-P
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Twitter: @priyaadesai1
Also please note that the rebrand of this newsletter—it’s now called SOCIAL ANTHROPOLOGY. In its broadest sense, it’s about how people live and how they make their lives meaningful. Here, from the Substack blurb, are other things I hope it will be about.
POP CULTURE; THE ZEITGEIST; WRITING/CREATING; TRAVEL (BEYOND "WHERE TO STAY"); INTERNATIONAL PEOPLE MAKING MOVES; NOT BEING MAD ABOUT CAPITALISM; LIVING BETWEEN TWO CULTURES; L.A. LIFE; MOTHERING WITH A SENSE OF HUMOR AND IRONY; THE MIDDLE PLACE (IYKYK)
Really enjoyed the article Priya.
Good reading and reminded me of my younger days.
This is beautiful! I love all of the imagery and how you explore all the unspoken dynamics of parenthood so deftly. I’m at the beginning with my 8 and 10 year old, but I look forward to being where you are with your older one. It terrifies me too tho - how old they get so quickly … Love the new title! Enjoy the holidays. Look forward to your next installment!