Independence

In a discussion about a good friend's son last week, I was struck by the similarities of our upbringings.

The son - now in his late-twenties - struggles to find his place in the world.

He's drifting.

No direction.

No purpose.

No ambition.

Unsure of what, if anything, he hopes to achieve and painfully unaware of how quickly our days on this earth pass.

His formative years were marred with all the trappings of his parents having been children when they had children - divorce, bitterness, fighting, remarriage, more fighting, more divorce.

His father didn't raise him, and his stepfather passed through his life during a ten-year period in which lines created by blood and certificates of marriage and divorce criss crossed into a blurry mess.

"Who is my step-brother this year?" I'm sure he wondered at some point.

He wasn't ignored by any stretch, but he wasn't exactly the center of his parent's attention, either.

His stepfather could be loving one day and brutal the next.

He saw things no child should ever see.

But also those that many a child dare not dream.

By slightly rearranging these words, I could describe my own childhood. My parents divorced before I was four, and by the time I graduated high school, I'd had my fair share of new parents and new parental figures.

There was anger.

Bitterness.

Separation.

Reconciliation.

More anger.

Abuse.

Resentment.

And more divorce.

The count of my extended family peaked around agent ten when I had eight sets of grandparents.

By 18, there wasn't so much as a scrap of those relationships remaining, and now, at 47, it sometimes takes me a minute to recall the names of my former step-siblings.

But I made it through.

I left for college when I was 18, and aside from the occasional visit, I never went back home. Between then and now, I struggled.

Mightily at times.

Yet here I am.

And I'm nothing special in this regard - countless happy and well-adjusted adults had childhoods to which mine is gilded in comparison.

By contrast, my friend's son is back home after another in what has been a string of attempts to get out on his own, and, as I understand the situation, he feels entitled to live with his parents as long as he'd like.

And he's not the only one. While practically zero of my peers ever lived at home again after their 18th birthday, today it's as common as coffee shops.

Anecdotally, more parents than not have adult children living at home or otherwise dependent upon them.

And, to be clear, my house is made of glass; I cast no stones.

Still, it's a curious situation.

Above all, I want my children to be happy.

To that end, I've done my best to raise them to be independent, not for my sake, but for theirs. I don't know many adults who are happy with their lives and also dependent upon their parents.

Among my friends with dependent adult children, most of them also tried to raise independent children. Most, like me, are Gen X; we're known for our resourcefulness and independence (thanks, latchkeys!).

So here we have resourceful, independent people doing their best to raise independent kids who, despite those efforts, are increasingly dependent upon their parents into their thirties (and even forties!).

I have some thoughts that I'll share in the next few weeks, but I'm curious: what do you think?

Just what the hell is going on here?