Our children have left us unsupervised

I sometimes wonder how my wife and I make it through the day. Given how little confidence our adult children have in us, it’s a wonder we manage to dress ourselves in the morning. And close to an open miracle that, despite our clear lack of basic decision-making skills, we lead fully functional lives and have even reached moderate levels of success. 

With our youngest now engaged and soon to leave the family home, I have no idea who’s going to take on the massive responsibility of pointing out the constant errors of our ways. With the empty nest looming in the forest, I wonder who’ll be there to point out that the figurative tree should not have fallen as it did. 

It’s a genuine concern.    

For nearly three decades, we have had a sophisticated, 24-hour quality-control department operating from inside our home. No opinion too insignificant to be challenged. No sentence allowed to pass without being checked for possible offence. 

“Dad, you can’t say that.” Apparently I can. I just did. 

I have long suspected that a significant number of complaints lodged at the Broadcasting Complaints Commission about things I’ve said on air come from those who share my DNA. I have no evidence of this, but there is motive, opportunity, and a family WhatsApp group.  

The problem is that I am apparently increasingly out of step with the times. Nobody formally tells you this has happened. You simply wake up one morning and discover that words you’ve used for 40 years now require context, an apology, and possibly legal representation. 

My children know instinctively what I can no longer say. They know which jokes are inappropriate, which expressions are outdated, and which stories I absolutely must not tell in public. 

I have also discovered that adult children don’t actually want advice. This came as something of a shock because I have accumulated quite a lot of it. 

I have spent decades solving their problems. I have driven forgotten school projects across Johannesburg and dealt with broken cars, missed flights, questionable boyfriends and girlfriends, university crises, and things that needed to be fixed immediately. And now, when they tell me about a problem, I’m expected simply to listen. I’m supposed to nod thoughtfully and say, “That sounds difficult.” 

Of course it sounds difficult. That’s why I have a solution. But apparently offering it is “interfering”. 

There are new rules. Be interested, but don’t interrogate. Be supportive, but don’t advise. Be available, but don’t hover. Respect their independence, but remain ready for airport lifts, storage, emergencies, and occasional financial interventions. 

And above all, respect boundaries. I particularly enjoy boundaries. These are people who once walked into our bedroom without knocking, ate food off our plates, and regarded everything we owned as communal property.  

The great irony is that this is exactly what we wanted. We raised them to think independently, question things, and have strong opinions. It turns out we were the things they were going to question. 

We taught them to speak. They have spent the last decade trying to get us to stop. 

And now they are leaving us. Unsupervised. 

My wife and I will finally be free to make our own decisions, hold our outdated opinions, and complete an entire sentence. 

For perhaps seven minutes. Then my phone will ping. “Dad. I heard what you said on air this morning.” And order will be restored to the universe.  

And I’ll smile. Because sometimes being told you’re wrong is just another way of being reminded that your children are still close enough to care.