Most of the time, I just nod and smile.
Sometimes, I add a comment or what passes for advice. I've also been known to face palm myself, sigh loudly or, the real ace in the hole, drop my chin and stare over the top of my glasses.
But, mostly I just nod and smile.
I'm not sure exactly how any of this lands. I mean, it's been a bit since I was on the receiving end of the wisdom of the ages or whatever it is I'm dispensing. Long enough that I've sort of forgotten just how annoying it was for some veteran of the domestic wars to presume to tell me how to handle whatever emergency I was going through. Or that whatever I was going through wasn't actually an emergency.
And yet, with the sound of unasked-for knowledge still ringing, faintly, in my ears (OK, so maybe it's actually tinnitus. At my age, it's entirely likely things will have both a psychological and physical cause), I still offer insights
Or I just nod and smile.
Take just the other day. A co-worker who is relatively new to the particular child-rearing neighborhood in which she finds herself, mentioned that her son had hit the age of 12 and apparently was celebrating the transition to this new phase of growth by literally consuming all the food in the house.
Now, "mentioned" is probably a bit on the conservative side. Realistically, she described the food consumption in much the same manner your traumatized aunt described seeing a Great White Shark unexpectedly come out of the water to consume a seal while she was on that sightseeing cruise on her recent vacation.
The description mixed a bit of incredulity and awe with a side of horror. Only your aunt didn't have to pay for that specific seal or any future seals.
Of course, I've been there. I have seen a teenager order what amounts to the left side of the menu and wash it down with the right side or heard him answer a waitress' offer of "fries, baked potato, casserole, spring vegetables or salad?" with "yes."
I personally have looked at the contents of a shopping cart at a warehouse store and realized that it's really hard to think of something as "family sized" if the rest of the family doesn't have a prayer of getting any of it.
In other words, I've been there, done that and I've got the T-shirt. Except it isn't actually mine and it has barbecue sauce, some mustard stains and, for no apparent reason, rubbed-in cotton candy on it.
And if I weren't the kind and compassionate person I am (I know: Have I ever met me?), I'd take this opportunity to both have a laugh at her expense and tell her it's not going to get any better before it gets worse. Also, that buying a cattle ranch/dairy/chicken house is going to suddenly seem like a smart investment, it's best not to get to attached to anything resembling leftovers and, as much as she may love her son, that it's really a good idea not to get her fingers too close to his face for the next few years.
However, I'm stirred both by memories of having stood exactly where she was standing (or sat in exactly the same fast-food restaurant while a teenager consumed two of everything then asked if I was going to eat those pickles) and the realization that you're never too far removed from some things.
It seems the most recent college semester has faded into memory. And joining it are several sleeves of peppers, a jar of peanut butter, a half-gallon of ice cream and a 55-gallon drum's worth of sports drinks that used to live in my refrigerator.
In other words, more food than we've been able to consume in a month has disappeared in the moments between "I'm home" and "Yeah, I haven't really had a chance to do much laundry this semester."
So, whatever my co-worker is going through with her son, unlike fine wine, it's not going to get any better with age. Which reminds me, I need to tell her to count the beers and mark the liquor bottles.
I mean, that's the sort of good advice a veteran child-rearer should be able to hand out with only the slightly hint of a smirk or knowing look.
Or, I could just nod and smile.
Commentary on 05/11/2018