The Long and Short of Unsolicited Advice
Well, I’ve done it. I’ve moved to Michigan. So, I am now sending columns from Yankee Land. I hope that doesn’t invalidate my commentary when it appears in a paper published south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
I love it here. I go to the beach every day—often at sunset, when I can watch that fiery orange globe sink into the waving waters of Lake Michigan. Tootsie the Wonder Dog has long loved to dip her feet in wild waters—but had never experienced waves. They surprised her, but she’s getting the hang of it.
Even more interesting to her are the other canines excitedly retrieving floating toys their people have thrown into the fauxcean. (That’s the word my daughter coined to describe Lake Michigan—a faux ocean, or fauxcean: It looks like one of the world’s major bodies of saltwater, but is, in fact, a giant fresh water lake.)
This move has been a long laborious process throughout which people have asked why I’m moving away from my children. (Two of my three children live in Arkansas.) The question caused a twang of angst each time it was posed, but that brief anxiety was supplanted by my wondering if the people posing the question believe having children means you must hover over them their entire lives—a belief that contradicts my own.
My kids are fully grown, competent adults, capable of taking care of themselves. They certainly don’t need their old mother telling them what to do. I try never to give them advice unless asked. If I am not domiciled in their general vicinity, that should be even easier.
Or maybe the people that question why I’d leave my kids actually believe a child’s purpose is to care for elderly parents. A sort of insurance policy. Again, I disagree. Besides, I’m not particularly frail. I’m of advanced age, perhaps, depending on who sets the standard. But I don’t need a walker. Or a sitter. And I’d prefer not to burden my children with these worries. If they choose to care for me if/when I become incapacitated, that’s lovely. But I didn’t bear children to have caregivers in my old age.
My kids have their lives, and I have mine. When our paths cross, it’s wonderful. Usually full of laughter. I don’t want to sit home alone and wait for them to come make me laugh. And I don’t want to pressure them into visiting. It’s up to me to live my life. And, in any case, all three offspring support my move wholeheartedly. At least that’s what they tell me. But, like their mother, they tend not to give unsolicited advice.
These days people separated by distance can keep in touch much more easily than in the olden days. In fact, there were extended periods during my time in Arkansas when I spoke more often to my Australian daughter than my Arkansas offspring. Video chatting is free and keeps us glued together despite being on opposite sides of the planet.
I know you didn’t ask for advice, and, as I’ve told you, it’s generally my policy to refrain from offering it without invitation. But I’m going bend the rule: If you are working your way down your bucket list—perhaps you needn’t let proximity to your offspring dictate the parameters entirely. Go find your ocean, fauxcean or mountaintop. Ride a camel in the desert or camp out in the northern lights. Follow your dream while you still have time. Children’s love is long and can reach across great expanses. Life is short.