Here’s a cliché observation: you spend the first two decades, more or less, of your child’s life trying to get a moment’s peace from them, but then, all of a sudden, the tables are turned and you’re trying to get them to hang out with you for even a minute.
Cue the cheesy Harry Chapin song: “Cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon…”
Of course, it’s not all bad; there are increased opportunities for day drinking and you can extend that practice into the evening with impunity. Also, no more having to attend Curriculum Night at their school.
But it is a little lonely to be sure. After all, you’ve spent countless hours just being their for your young one and now they no longer need you; what to do with all this time on your hands?
You could take up needlepoint or model airplane building. You could help out at the local soup kitchen. You could write short essays about your experience that few may ever read.
Traditionally, I believe, one takes this opportunity to begin nagging one’s child to have children; you start pushing hard for grandkids. I’m not quite ready for that, although I’m sure I’ll be an ace grandparent; I already have the collection of Pendleton wool shirts needed for the job.
One of the main things about this new phase of life is how clearly it illustrates the futility of all existence. If you’ve done your job as a parent halfway decently, you’ve effectively worked yourself out of the picture.
The whole point of the exercise is to render yourself superfluous. And for those of us who have long harbored suspicions about the essential absurd pointlessness of the human condition, it really brings it home: perhaps the entire reason any of us are here on planet earth is to be done with the whole thing.
Admittedly, I’m being slightly morbid here; but why not? I certainly have the time for it.
Cue the cheesy Harry Chapin song: “Cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon…”
Of course, it’s not all bad; there are increased opportunities for day drinking and you can extend that practice into the evening with impunity. Also, no more having to attend Curriculum Night at their school.
But it is a little lonely to be sure. After all, you’ve spent countless hours just being their for your young one and now they no longer need you; what to do with all this time on your hands?
You could take up needlepoint or model airplane building. You could help out at the local soup kitchen. You could write short essays about your experience that few may ever read.
Traditionally, I believe, one takes this opportunity to begin nagging one’s child to have children; you start pushing hard for grandkids. I’m not quite ready for that, although I’m sure I’ll be an ace grandparent; I already have the collection of Pendleton wool shirts needed for the job.
One of the main things about this new phase of life is how clearly it illustrates the futility of all existence. If you’ve done your job as a parent halfway decently, you’ve effectively worked yourself out of the picture.
The whole point of the exercise is to render yourself superfluous. And for those of us who have long harbored suspicions about the essential absurd pointlessness of the human condition, it really brings it home: perhaps the entire reason any of us are here on planet earth is to be done with the whole thing.
Admittedly, I’m being slightly morbid here; but why not? I certainly have the time for it.
No comments:
Post a Comment