I track my son in more than a few ways: Find My Friends, his bank account, Instagram, Snapchat, TikTok, Venmo, Strava, and I’m probably missing some. I know some of you do, too, because we joke about it when we get together.
We look at the apps when we miss them and want to feel closer to them, when we want to make sure they’re paying rent, when we don’t trust that they’re going to class. We look at them to feel in touch once they stop telling us things.
(If you don’t do any of these things you can stop reading right now. You’re not my people.)
I blame technology, but I also blame a culture that has normalized being all up in our kids’ business. We know it’s too much, but it’s just too easy when our kids live such public, online lives.
And they are so used to being seen online that they don’t seem to care: I’m sure my son has no idea, for example, that I can see his Venmo transactions ($150 – cologne; $46 – jorts; $7 – back at you bro!)
Is tracking our kids the opposite of trust?
We spend 18 years or so knowing where our kids are all the time. When they live with us, we can lay eyes on them to see how they are actually doing. We lose so many touchpoints when we send them off to college. We just have to trust that they are out there making good choices. But do we truly trust them? For me it’s a nail biter.
My son, 6 years ago, went through something that was life threatening. We’ve been on high alert since then; it could happen again. We’d be powerless to stop it. (I’ll write about this sometime). There is a part of me that feels terrified and responsible because I could not keep him safe 6 tears ago and I know I can't keep him safe now. So no, I don’t trust his every move and every decision.
But even with that lurking in the background, now that he’s an adult living out of state, I have to find some way to trust that he is finding support and can catch himself before he falls.
And yet giving that trust—that he will buy groceries, go to class, see his counselor, and not spend nights in ditches—is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. So I track him, silently, and rely on hope.
It’s not helping either of us
All that checking is a large emotional load for me. While it does give me the illusion of feeling closer to my kid, it’s not helping him at all and it’s wrecking me in a few ways:
- All that knowledge makes me worry more. It exhausts me. No, I don’t agree with all his choices. In fact, I’m deeply uncomfortable with many of them. But do I need them in my face all the time? My nervous system says a loud no.
- It’s an invasion of his privacy, which makes me feel shitty. Why should I know so much about what he’s doing? It’s the modern-day equivalent of reading a journal…even if it is lying open there on the kitchen table.
- It’s not preventing a damn thing from happening. Whether I check or not, he may still get hurt or make a dangerous choice. And even if I could stop bad choices, I may not choose to, because those are the lessons that will help him grow up.
- It’s delaying my ability to let him go live his own life. It’s not delaying HIS ability to go live his own life; he’s already doing that. It’s delaying MY ability to give him the space to go do it.
And this last one is new and it's the one that hits hard:
I’m delaying my own growth. Empty nesting, mid-life, is a time of promise and evolution, and I’m not fully in it, because I’m still one foot in his life. I’m looking for touchpoints by tracking him in the apps and I’m either worried or missing him, in equal measures, all of the time. This keeps me from being fully present in this phase that should be all mine, exciting and free.
Setting us both loose to grow up means I have to create a little distance between us.
Deleting one app at a time
Here’s what happened most recently. He started a TikTok channel and he uploads a new video each day about working out, nutrition, weightlifting, or improving your looks. All topics that are fairly normal for young men, but disturbing in the context of both my son’s illness and the gross, dangerous online looksmaxxing culture. He uploaded a couple that were before/afters, and his before photo was from the 9th grade. I know he was deeply insecure then, and to see him make fun of that tender, smaller self is heartbreaking. I can’t watch these videos. They make me feel scared and sad.
I realized that watching these videos each day was not about me feeling more close to him and not about keeping a watchful eye. It was about helping me feel in control through knowledge. But it all just got too heavy to carry.
So I deleted TikTok.
Felt a little like closing my eyes at first; then it felt completely right.
My illusions of control
Letting go of a child feels scary and out of control. Any control you thought you had is gone once they become adults and move away.
I tend to feel more on top of things and less fearful when I know what’s going on. This is true for all areas of my life. With my son, I have felt that I would be able to prevent something bad from happening to him if I worried about him, checked on him, and knew everything. It’s offered me a (very false) sense of control. But worse, I felt if I stopped worrying, then I would be a bad mom who didn’t love my child enough. I’ve had to work on this: nothing is further from the truth.
Dumping TikTok was the first step. It was a small step that felt big, because in doing so I am giving myself and my child both more space as we separate and he becomes an adult.
I’m also trying to text him less, check his location less, and not wander over to his checking account when I look at mine. The Venmo purchases still make me chuckle ($12.50 – Tron poster), but there's no nefarious activity there. Now I really on talking to him for 5 minutes a couple times a week. They aren't deep conversations, but it sets my mind at ease to hear him go off on something his efforts to find the cheapest ground beef in town.
Do I still worry? Constantly. Terrified Mom is still there, but I’m trying to give her less space. Sometimes the fear spreads across my chest if I haven’t talked to him for a while because I can’t really tell how he’s doing. Some days the fear still wins. But not checking on his socials does not mean I’m a bad mom.
It means I’m a mom who’s trying to create better boundaries that will free both of us. And that is much healthier and more loving than knowing what he bought last night.
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