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The other day, I had a mini (read kinda big) panic attack. Panic attack sufferers don’t hate on me. I know it wasn’t what you endure, and I’m not making light of those situations, but for me it was a panic attack.
Merdouille de merdouillette! My son is going to be twenty-five . . . in thirteen years, but it is going to happen! This year he hits the teen years—as he reminds me weekly—and my overactive brain is picturing graduation day at university, moving into his own loft, hitchhiking across Mongolia, and other equally exciting escapades. And this isn’t just me being dramatic. Those days will come. Except I hope he uses a camel or horse to crisscross Mongolia, because I’ve done some research and the vehicles there aren’t very reliable.
The rational side of my brain (it’s there!) knows that seeing him grow and venture out is what being a parent entails, and that our role is to provide him the tools to develop his strength of character, initiative, and sense of adventure. If we've done that properly then we won’t need to concern ourselves with his decisions, because they’ll be somewhat thought out. Maybe not during the teen years when I’ve been told the brain goes on hiatus, but after that.
I want my son to experience so much—a great childhood with a balance of family, travel, friends, schooling, and sports. An exciting adolescence without too much drama. A rich adult life peppered with much-loved traditions, love, and adventure. It’s a grand dream and one that every parent has.
What is the master plan to help him become that man?
I could be missing something, but I hope this puts us on the right track. In the meantime, allow me to hyperventilate, eat a few squares of chocolate, and pour myself a lovely glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. This one’s from Spain.
I can’t be the only one who has these moments of madness. Can I?