…and parents old
Ferdie Rous
‘Crabbed age and youth cannot live together… youth like summer morn, age like winter weather.’ Ignoring Shakespeare’s warning, my mother and father brought me into the world – an only child – at the grand old ages of 43 and 49 respectively.
On holiday, the man in the ice-cream van often asked me, ‘How are you enjoying your day out with Granny and Grandpa?’ – much to my parents’ mock, and my actual, indignation.
Older parents are more settled, socially and professionally. So they can – and do – spend more time with their children. But their children are less independent as a result. All the love and attention we receive at home makes us prone to mental health problems. It’s harder for us to adapt to life beyond the home.
Having old parents is no disadvantage. But there are certain challenges other children don’t have to face – at least not in the same way.
Take technology. Since the age of 12, I have been the unofficial residential helpline – though not a very effective one. Tasks such as finding recently saved files on computers were boring at the age of 12; positively exasperating by 18. My parents’ most common request these days is about how to record TV shows. No matter how many times I point to the large red button with the ‘R’ on it, the requests keep pouring in. This creates a tense – if not overtly hostile – atmosphere.
The children of urban oldies like me – I was brought up in London – don’t have an outdoorsy youth. In cities, the protective nature of the older parent kicks in: wandering around the neighbourhood unsupervised is forbidden. Rural children have it a little easier, with greater liberty to roam in the countryside rather than the cupboardlike gardens of the city.
Mum and Dad did take me swimming
but, after the age of 12, it petered out. From then on, weekends were a little less active, consisting largely of siestas, reading and endless lunches with other oldies. They became exhausted, finding ways to amuse a 12-year-old.
Holidays went on, as for any other family, but they were a little dull. The seaside isn’t much fun when you are the youngest person on the beach by 45 years. And we didn’t go on many joint family holidays with children my age. Old parents have old friends, with older children; it isn’t fertile ground for friendship. The children of my parents’ friends were too old to talk to me on my level. So I had to try speaking at their level – which, in turn, put me on a different level from my peers.
In 2009, aged 13, I went to see Inherit the Wind, a play about a legal challenge to the teaching of evolution in a school in 1920s America. Like the show-off I was, I bragged about it to my uninterested and irritated peers. I did not learn with my peers and I realised that mimicking them was even worse – so I tried to impress them. My social life became rather cyclical: try to impress, fail, feel bad, and try to impress again, once my courage was restored.
Different generations are shocked by different things, too. How often have I had to say to my parents, ‘You can’t say that any more’ – particularly over things such as race and transgender issues.
Still, on the plus side, older parents are a source of extraordinary anecdotes, remembering moments that are ancient history for other people. My mother studied alongside the revolutionary student leader Daniel Cohn-bendit at Nanterre in 1968. My father knows exactly where he was as the clock counted down to potential apocalypse during the Cuban missile crisis in 1962.
My history teacher once expressed a similar sentiment at a parents’ evening: ‘There is nothing worse than teaching a history course for which you are a primary source.’
The hardest thing about having older parents is the familiarity with death you develop. My mother and a friend attended one of my mediocre piano performances when I was eight. Only a few years later, the friend had died.
Three months ago, I had to take my father to hospital after he had a stroke – a difficult experience at any point in life for any son. This exposure to mortality doesn’t simply mean you treasure the moments you have all the more. It also means that – though any intimation of death or illness remains unpleasant – you become, to a degree, desensitised to it.
The older parent puts you in touch with a different world; the past is another country. But the social awkwardness that results from living in another country from your parents is isolating. It makes you happy with isolation even if, like me, you remain happily dependent on your older parents.
I am 23, I live at home – even though I can afford to move out – I don’t cook my own meals and I am still quite awkward. In effect, I haven’t properly grown up.