By Marnie Winston-Macauley

“Did you remember to buy me Pepsi, gummy bears, and chocolate chip cookies — the soft kind?” asked my son, as I schlepped a dozen plastic shopping bags. “I got it, I got it,” I answered wearily. “Good! Mom, what about the Altoids … and cigarettes?”

BeachDid I mention he’s 30?

Like many bizarro boomers, when I gave birth, I vowed to be parent-perfect. My child would be allowed to “express” himself, “be” himself, “find” himself. As a Jewish parent, “perfect” was a starting point. I was determined to be a Boomer mama deluxe, which is why I’m asking him if he prefers milk with U-Bet chocolate syrup or Metamucil with his Oreos.

With age, we narcissists started to wonder about our empty-nester parents. “What would they live for?” we worried. As usual, life had a way of putting things right. Somehow they managed to muddle through. With the miracle of anti-aging shakes, Viagra, and “wellness clinics,” they danced around early bird buffets, booked into elder-hostels, and downsized to motor, and manufactured homes in places like Miami Beach and Scottsdale. While mama and papa were learning to rap, line-dance, and traverse the Rockies in their RV’s, we were working two careers, caring for our own 30-year-old “kids,” and couldn’t send them to their bubbie and zaydie whose “guest room” consists of a pull-out sofa.

So we’re stuck with our “adultalescents” — the snazzy new psycho-babble for kids who don’t leave home till they’re eligible for Medicare. In fact, in at least one country, Italy, “adultalescence” is being recognized by the laws of the land.

Source: Adultalescence

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