Conversation

Shire Hall was brought into this world in January 1998. It will be 26 next month. But rather than emerging as a young adult, Shire Hall seems stuck. It seems trapped in the body of a prepubescent teen— moody, sullen and detached. That is, when it isn’t screaming in rage. Simple questions are met with massive eye rolls, wild displays of temper and the purest ooze of disdain. Mom and Dad perpetually walk on eggshells trying not to set off the raging bag of hormones.

But it’s no longer a child. It’s 26 years old. Perhaps it’s time Shire Hall began acting like an adult. Tried living within its means. Perhaps it stopped asking Mom and Dad for more money every year. And then sulking in a corner when asked to do with less.

Instead we remain stuck in the mom-and dad- you-are-wrecking-my-life-and-I-hate you stage.

‘Sweetie, your mother and I have noticed there are many more folks working here this year. Where did they come from? I thought we agreed that there would be no more hiring for a while? Sweetie?’

The fury spirals immediately as Shire Hall throws its binder on the floor.

“Ahhh…you never understand me. You never did. You don’t care about what I need. It’s just money, money, money with you two. You tell me to grow up, so I’m growing up. Grown ups need entourages. Taylor Swift has an entourage. Kendrik Lamar has an entourage. I need an entourage. Just stay out of my effing life.”

So the parents—the funders of this adventure— back away. They shrug their shoulders and hope their now-adult offspring soon grows out of this phase.

But every year, just before Christmas, you must sit down together. To talk about how things are going. You can’t avoid it any longer. You can’t afford it. Costs are out of control. The spending is crazy. And pointless. And empty. If you keep going on this track, your teen is going to spend you out of house and home. You can put a date on a calendar when the money runs out. It can’t go on.

So you talk.

But what comes forth is an incoherent, garbled bag of nonsense. At times it seems intentionally so. Other times, it is clear that you have failed to teach your teen the basics of communications. Of money. Of responsibility. Of frugality.

“Just give me what I need,” they shriek.

You try to respond in a calm, even tone.

“But why do you need more? Every year?”

The yelling goes to 11. “Give it to me or something bad will happen to the dog. I swear to god.”

Then you start yelling. “It has to stop. Your behaviour is bleeding this family dry.”

You threaten to put your teen on a strict allowance, but you know you won’t win this fight.

There is too much money flowing around. And they control the levers. Too much that is unaccounted for—will never be accounted for. For all you know, there may be boxes of money being stashed away under blankets and in closets, but you don’t know for sure. You dare not ask what happened to the surpluses. You don’t ask why the numbers never add up.

Then the truth-bending begins. “It’s not really that much more money,” they yell while stamping their feet. “Costs are going up,” they shout. “A Gucci bag now costs $5,000,” they explain. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Perhaps, sweetie, you don’t need another Gucci bag? Perhaps you could get by with the six you have already?”

“I can’t—I won’t live this way,” they sob, with tears streaming down their face, before turning and storming away.

But you pull them up, pointing to the fact that they are hiding the true cost of their spending from you.

“No I’m not,” they retort indignantly.

“Yes, you can see right here this is what you say you need, while you tell other folks a different number.”

“But Brittany does the same thing,” they respond.

“If Brittany told you to jump off a cliff…”

You cut yourself off, because you know the message isn’t getting through. You are talking to a wall. All you can do is take a deep breath and wait. This too, shall pass.

rick@wellingtontimes.ca