My baby girl just turned 18 years old, so, the way I figure it, I’m done now with being a parent.
Of course, I’ll bail her out of jail as needed and continue to finance her higher education, but when it comes to the day-to-day responsibility of seeing that my child grows into a competent adult who can feed and clothe herself, I’m pretty much finished.
She’s graduated from high school, has a job, and can drive a manual transmission automobile. (She’s also brilliant, beautiful, and has a great sense of humor, but I can only take partial responsibility for that.)
We’re not going to kick her out of the house or anything, (nor will she even have to pay rent), but things are different with another adult now living in the house.
For one thing, I don’t have to keep the pot vaporizer hidden so carefully downstairs. For another, I probably don’t have to be so conscientious about not eating the last half bagel. But most importantly, I can now stop worrying about the Child Protective Services ever coming to take her away—what a load off!
It’s seems only yesterday that she was a tiny little baby who could rest her head in my hand and sleep on my forearm—but perhaps that’s the fault of the aforementioned vaporizer.
Of course, she’ll always be our little girl, even as she goes out into the world and does great things, (especially if those things are incredibly lucrative and she makes it a point to send money home.)
I also know that, in my heart, I’ll always be her dad, which mean, among other things, that in my heart, I’ll always be able to drink beer in the afternoon and take naps on the couch.
It’s amazing to think that it was less than two decades ago I was changing her diapers; even more amazing is that it may only be that long until she’s changing mine.
Of course, I’ll bail her out of jail as needed and continue to finance her higher education, but when it comes to the day-to-day responsibility of seeing that my child grows into a competent adult who can feed and clothe herself, I’m pretty much finished.
She’s graduated from high school, has a job, and can drive a manual transmission automobile. (She’s also brilliant, beautiful, and has a great sense of humor, but I can only take partial responsibility for that.)
We’re not going to kick her out of the house or anything, (nor will she even have to pay rent), but things are different with another adult now living in the house.
For one thing, I don’t have to keep the pot vaporizer hidden so carefully downstairs. For another, I probably don’t have to be so conscientious about not eating the last half bagel. But most importantly, I can now stop worrying about the Child Protective Services ever coming to take her away—what a load off!
It’s seems only yesterday that she was a tiny little baby who could rest her head in my hand and sleep on my forearm—but perhaps that’s the fault of the aforementioned vaporizer.
Of course, she’ll always be our little girl, even as she goes out into the world and does great things, (especially if those things are incredibly lucrative and she makes it a point to send money home.)
I also know that, in my heart, I’ll always be her dad, which mean, among other things, that in my heart, I’ll always be able to drink beer in the afternoon and take naps on the couch.
It’s amazing to think that it was less than two decades ago I was changing her diapers; even more amazing is that it may only be that long until she’s changing mine.
