I'd like to go deeper into what it means to be an adolescent. What it meant for us, and what it seems to mean now. In addition to the major differences we've already mentioned, there appears to be an even greater anxiety about growing up than what we experienced. We longed for, and achieved, a fair degree of independence (aka lack of supervision), which we embraced head-on. We thought nothing of venturing out, taking off, flying without the proverbial net. Our kids, on the other hand, while astonishingly accomplished and motivated, seem to be backing into adulthood. Not that they don't crave autonomy; it's more like the very real hurdles they will have to confront as adults are being put on hold. This is not about individuals but really a reflection of a cultural phenomenon of protracted adolescence. Part of it has to do with us, of course, with our wanting to keep them closer, longer, to hang onto the intensity of the precious, breathtakingly fleeting childhood years. And we do/have to a good extent, and to much good effect. We are in more in tune with our children's lives, and share more with them on a day-to-day (sometimes hour-to-hour) basis, than our parents were with ours. 

Beginnings

We didn't start out the way we are today. It took us years of intense bickering and more than a few all-out battles to realize that our status as  siblings could in fact become a sisterhood of the highest order. We initially came together in adolescence, as a united front against our parents—a fairly unoriginal scenario that, in our case, entailed labyrinthine tales to cover our nefarious activities. Our teenage years were typical enough. Though a few years too young to benefit from the upheaval of the late sixties, we managed to make the most of its fallout. We attended what was euphemistically called a "free" school, part of the Great Education Experiment of the 1970s. In our case, it was a public high school located on the fringe of the University of Minnesota campus—adjacent to its notorious Dinkytown, haunted by Bob Dylan a decade earlier. There were, in keeping with its mandate, no rules to speak of and no discernable curriculum....

...and no discernable barrier between the so-called teachers and students. More about that, maybe, later. The upshot of this amorphous education (and this "relaxed" approach extended to our interaction with our parents) was that we had to provide our own structure, a process that involved pushing boundaries to the breaking point, then, when we were sufficiently spooked by our actions, putting on the breaks. This self-policing did instill a certain discipline and wisdom, to be sure. In some ways, funnily enough, it made us more conservative, more wary, than we might have been had we had distinct parameters and standards to adhere to. When we each became parents we found ourselves micromanaging our children's lives, hyper-attentive to every emotional blip and ultra-vigilant as to their whereabouts at every moment. This approach has many negatives along with the good intentions that foster it. 

Conservative indeed! I'd say more like radically pro-education and adamantly pro-carpe diem. In fact, this way of looking at the world kicked in for me when I (miraculously, given my non-existent high school education and unimpressive test scores) got into college, an event that I am still convinced was due to computer error.

I arrived at UCLA at 17 with a near-physical craving for knowledge, a week after freshman orientation (hey, Mom and Dad, how about a look at that calendar!) to find that many of the survey courses I was required to take were already full. So with a little help from a counselor and several trips to the computer-enrollement center, I managed to sign up for an eclectic group of courses, including ancient classics (upper level), studio art, and intro. to anthropology.

Well, the fact that you were able to navigate UCLA and find your way into classes, etc., says a lot about you and perhaps also about the fact that we were used to figuring out stuff for ourselves—stuff that would typically fall under the parenting umbrella. Makes me wonder about our generation's hypervigilance, our micromanaging of our children's lives. The constant communication, aided and abetted by cellphones, to be sure, makes it even harder for them, and us, to feel independent. We don't want them to make the same mistakes we made; we want to keep them safe and help them make the right choices. All of this unrelenting attention can lead to a kind of inter-dependence that makes it really tough to let go. Colleges call it "helicopter parenting." Childhood extends far into what used to be termed adulthood. That said, I do believe our kids are in many ways more secure and that they (much of the time) share more of their inner lives with us. Is this good? In balance, I have to think so. I want to know who they are, what they're thinking and worrying about.... 

comparisons

The first of my pros and cons from an ex-pat living in Italy:



Pro:



bidets--once you get use to having one of these in your bathroom you will never want to

give it up. Refreshing, at all times of the months as well as after daily rituals. Italians find it hard if not impossible to adapt to the no-bidet situation in the USA. After all, they have been washing their bums in it since they could walk (before that their moms or dads did it) and so feel unclean if unable to soap up and dry off after using the bathroom sitting down (now am I clear)?!

So, if you have an Italian houseguest, expect him or her to make creative use of the shower in all possible positions and stages of undress to take care of this primal need. And be sure to supply small towels (US face size) for your guest which should then be deposited in the to-be-washed bin. If this isn't clear, let me know.



Con:



the "Turca", otherwise known as bagno alla turca (and I'm still trying to find out why), which is the ubiquitous stand-up urinal that you will find in both men's and women's bathrooms throughout Italy. Not to be confused with the wall-model men's urinal also seen in other countries, this is a basic porcelain slab on the floor with slats modelled in the porcelain to prevent slipping, I guess, and a hole in the middle. Italians says these toilets are more hygenic, but given the awkwardness of them most people make a terrible mess, so I have my serious doubts.



They pose a major logistical problem for women, as they requires a certain degree of atheltic ability, mainly squatting, and very good aim and flow control to avoid spraying oneself with one's own pee. There are many techniques for using the "turca", none of them very satisfactory. Some women face forward, others backward. Some squat deeply and aim directly for the hole in the floor, while others stand and hold onto the occasionally available handles on the wall. All in all a challenge. If you have any difficulties squatting or plan to invite a woman of a certain age or elegance out to dinner, I strongly advise calling the restaurant to assure yourself that it is fited with a regular toilet. More than once I have found myself out with American guests, in nice restaurants, and highly embarrassed that no other option was available. By the way, Italian women hate them too!

I find it weirdly fascinating that a culture so obsessed with cleanliness would tolerate a stand-up toilet for women—a serious oxymoron happening between the bidet and the turca. There is absolutely no way to pee standing up without spraying yourself. I'd pay to see a woman who could aim her stream directly into that hole without a splash.  That aside, I am always impressed by the Italians proclivity for hygiene, propriety, and order. For some reason—from my perspective as a sloppy American, anyway—it doesn't come across as dictatorial. Rather, one interprets it as the "right" way to go about life, and that one would be foolish to behave otherwise. These habits seem to extend naturally enough to the Italians superior design sense. There's an elegance and ease to the way many things (and people) look and work that we too-loud, esthetically clueless Americans can only admire and approximate. I realize I am writing through an outsider's haze and that there are plenty of slovenly Italians and that the attention to every small detail could become oppressive. Yet...