Unless you’ve been on a mountaintop without internet reception, you’ve probably heard the story earlier this summer of an UNEMPLOYED 30 year-old New York man who will not leave home. He’s been ensconced in his parents’ home for the last ten years RENT-FREE!
His parents had to take him to court to get him out of their home.
Nothing else worked.
The man’s parents offered to pay for an apartment for as long as he needed to get on his feet. Even this tempting offer fell on deaf ears. (Am I still allowed to say that or is it insensitive to the deaf community?)
Worst of all, the man has a son himself. Poor kid. In the lottery of birth, this shorty drew a real winner.
Thank God the New York Supreme Court ruled in the favor of the parents.
And thank God the mother has won full custody of the minor child in question–Father-of-the-Year Michael Rotundo, the man who will not leave home, claims to have never had a relationship with the child’s mother.
Hmmm. News flash, Sas-Squatter: You apparently ejaculated into this woman’s vagina, so we’re going to assume you had a relationship at some level. Unless you’re a dog humping anybody who walks by. (Although one look at you affirms my hypothesis that it doesn’t matter what you look like or what you act like–someone will boink you.)
You know, as the mother of three sons and a long-time high school teacher, I can dig where these exasperated parents are coming from. But I can also see where he’s coming from, too.
Helicopter Parenting is en vogue. High school teachers see it all the time. Some parents follow their progeny about carrying a mega-roll of ultra-soft toilet paper with them to wipe their little darlings’ hairy asses.
Don’t believe me? Google college professors report parents are calling them to complain about their son or daughter’s grades.
Yeah, extreme, I know, but even middle-schoolers are too old to for this kind of hovercraft-parenting.
A school secretary at one of the best middle schools in our county reports that a parent called to complain that the facial tissue in a teacher’s classroom isn’t soft enough. (Ma’am, it’s highly likely that teacher is providing tissue out of her own pocket–some don’t. If you don’t like it, send a tissue pack in your child’s pocket.)
Another parent called and asked the secretary to get word to her son not to bite into his apple at lunch. It’s not good. (Hello? If your little Einstein can’t tell the apple is bad, you’ve got more problems than lunch. Plus, this secretary is supposed to drop everything, run across the building and interrupt a class of 35+? Give me the strength.)
On top of over-the-top parenting, technology is rendering our children into helpless automatons.
Drive by any school bus stop. Every kid is on his cellphone ignoring human interaction. Kids no longer roam the neighborhood, and use their imaginations or large muscle groups. Bicycles gifted them rust in backyards. Bellies grow flabby.
Instead, they play video games and communicate online. Some don’t even see the sun most summers.
Dr. Phil has famously said that a parent’s job is preparing the child for the next stage of life.
Getting to another game level while living in squalor is probably not what Dr. Phil had in mind.
So what’s the answer?
Dial it back, Mom and Dad. Let your children experience failure, rotten apples, rough facial tissue, hard-ass teachers, and douche-bag coaches. Wait on sounding the war drums on their behalf and let them fight their own battles.
Life isn’t always buttery comfort. Stop wiping ass.
Remember how we would go places WITHOUT CELLPHONES and our parents had to trust us? Yup, me too.
Give your kids a little leeway while there’s still time. I learned this lesson one day years ago when coming downstairs to find my seven year-old son John on the couch.
“Hey Mom, can you get me a milk?” he asked. I automatically said I would.
Then I turned the corner into the kitchen and found my two-year-old son Kris had pushed a chair over to the counter. He had climbed up to get a glass and had the milk jug already out and ready to go.
What’s wrong with this picture? I asked myself, and then promptly told John to get it himself.
You know, I’ve never understood mothers who have mourned the fact their children are getting older. What’s the alternative? Death?
I for one look forward to having an empty nest and a more adult-to-adult relationship with my sons.
There’s nothing wrong with instilling independence in kids. Isn’t that the end goal anyway? Or do you want to grow your very own George?
Not this chick. No way. No how.
No cutting meat for kids old enough to shower alone.
No apron strings via cellphone.
No Gray Warrior vanquishing all the dragons who get in the path of my kids.
And most of all, no failure to launch. Like any well-managed inn, there is a check-out time. Especially at the Loser Hotel.
Susan J. Anderson
Foxy Writer Chick
PS> Michael Rotundo moved out and is reportedly crashing with a distant relative. Guess he didn’t learn a damn thing. What a pity–for both Rotundo and the distant relative.