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Training Wheels

A hamster in the house is sure to sow the seeds of discontent 
among siblings, and the hamster wheel speeds up the slow 
but steady relinquishing of parental authority

My oldest daughter, more 
affectionately known as the woman-child, recently ado-pted a hamster — which is all well and good, I suppose. She’s away at college so, theoretically speaking, the whiskered beast won’t add appreciably to the chaos that lives and breathes here.

To date, we house a pampered dog, a self-absorbed cat and, ironica-lly,fivesmelly hamsters — which is plenty, given that a number of children and house plants also reside here, making demands and a profusion of noise as a matter of course.

Well, not the plants so much.

At any rate, the aforementioned 
co-ed is a fairly responsible 20-something who has waited a very long time to welcome a pet of her own — to feed and water the said creature without fail, to scrub away stench and eradicate poo with glee, to know the horrors and complexities of cage assembly and the sheer panic of “misplacing” the dear rodent in question.

But, in all fairness, she couldn’t be happier or more eager to embrace the notion that such a tiny (and admittedly adorable) being is now entirely dependent upon her ability 
to perform such tasks. There’s something to be said for delayed gratification, methinks.

However, it has come to my attention that a certain couple of somebodies have a problem with their big sister’s new role as a bona fide pet owner. It seems that someone’s panties are officially in a bunch over the matter of obtaining (or not) parental consent for the purchase of the above-mentioned hamster.

Once the news broke (i.e. the furry beast was deposited upon the coffee table for one and all to behold), the
vociferous rantconversation unfolded thusly: “Does MOM know you got this!?” Thing One fumed with indignation.

“Yeah! You can’t just walk into a store and buy a hamster without Mom’s permission! She’ll absolutely FREAK when she finds out!” Thing Two barked, visibly disturbed by her sister’s alleged failure to follow family protocol.

“Hellooooo, I’m anadultand Mom will be perfectly fine with this. You’ll see,” the woman-child defended, alm-ost comically.

Indeed, Iwasperfectly fine with it; but I was then faced with a thorny task — that of explaining to my youngest charges the particulars that encompass perhaps the greyest parenting are-as:when, how and under what circumstances to relinquish authority — great or small — to our children, especially to those on the cusp of adulthood.

In so doing, I found myself wrestling with the intangible nature of age as it relates to maturity, struggling mightily to define the indefinable and ham-handedly muddling through the whys and wherefores that drive nearly every decision that ultimately leads to the conferral of independence.

Somehow, I managed to field the barrage of unanswerables and all concerned parties under the age of 12 seemed reasonably content with the outcome of the Great Hamster Debate. Translation: They were decidedly ent-hralled to learn that one day they’ll likely be carrying iPhones and able to adopt a herd of llamas, with or without my blessing.

However, it made me think about the process itself, about the supreme challenge of knowing when and how much to surrender in the way of sovereignty, about what an inexact science it truly is.

It’s not enough that our grasp on the vestiges of control is tenuous at best; we must also deal with the uncertain nature ofwhento give it up.

Naturally, the training wheels are the first to go, then it’s our presence they no longer require as they careen around the proverbial block, oblivious to the fear we routinely invite. Finally, they rush headlong into the enormity of the world, eager to make their own way and to cast aside the likes of training wheels forever.

I’d like to think I’m on the right track, no matter how inordinately awkward I feel at times, doling out freedom in embarrassingly small chunks, gauging success, one child and one liberating event at a time. Loosening the reins, as it were — perhaps the most difficult task of all.