Growing

“Adult Children.” What an oxymoron.

R. turned 18 last fall. She is mature for her age, poised and wiser than her years in many ways. Still, she calls to me from the kitchen, where she swings on the open refrigerator door like a little monkey, asking, “What should I eat?”

Really?

She has been living, shopping, cooking and eating on her own since starting college five months ago. Like most college students, she subsists on pasta. When I suggest that increasing her protein intake might help alleviate the dizziness she complains about, she looks at me as if I belong in a home. When I suggest that sleeping for four hours after partying all night might explain why she keeps getting sick, she dismisses me with contempt. A week later she calls crying for a remedy for her raw throat and fever.

She joined a bus full of strangers on a trip to Virginia to do volunteer work at 14, traveled in Israel for a month by herself at 16, and has landed dozens of acting auditions and job interviews. But when she needs to figure out which subway will take her across town, she calls me for directions.

Growth isn’t linear.

It also isn’t commensurate with age.

After all, when F's parents call to see how he's doing, he doesn’t even try to hide his annoyance. An adult child.The more they probe, the more remote he becomes, just the way E., our 16-year-old, responds when I ask him how he is: speaking softly enough, with just enough disdain, to make me want to leave the country.

Perhaps I need thicker skin.Or a better sense of humor.Or just to let things go.

Now that would be real growth.