“You must be very proud of him” is the standard comment from friends and colleagues. Well, yes, but also frustrated and anxious about the future: his and ours. Our son has just acquired a mediocre arts degree and a whole heap of debt. He’ll be home soon to our small suburban house with his bike and PlayStation, to a summer job for a few weeks, then an uncertain future.
For our part, it is the end of three years without the daily stresses of parenting happening under our noses – my controlling parenting instincts are such that I parent better at arm’s length. Now that is going to end, and the new closeness between me and my husband is likely to fracture. I am scared.
I love my only son. He’s not brilliant or ambitious; he’s quirky, creative and a great cook. But I don’t want to see the daily struggles of job hunting played out close to me: the initial enthusiasm, the speedy loss of hope, the bar jobs, non-jobs and internships, as the expensive degree goes stale on the shelf. I know my professional background and high hopes will put pressure on him. I’ve done this parenting thing for 21 years, with a child who was by no means easy, and I’m getting tired.
So I’m buying another year’s peace – expensively. We’re funding a further year’s study, using a small legacy. I hope it helps him to get a job in the end. But most of all I want to buy another year for him, sequestered from my pressure and from the death of his unrealistic hopes – and, selfishly, another year’s peace for us. Neither son nor husband know why I agreed so readily to this huge expense.
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