An earlier version of this essay appeared in YourTeen Magazine.
I used to be a parental ATM.
Now that my son is college-bound, I’ve expanded into a full-service financial institution.
During the golden parenting years—pre-puberty—it’s possible my son viewed me as a wise parental figure.
Maybe.
But once I bought him a cell phone and activated his entitlement gene, I became a walking, breathing ATM.
He set the rules.
Transactions were limited to withdrawals. I was not allowed to converse, analyze the merits of the purchase, or waste time asking questions.
The job description of a parental ATM mirrors the principles of marital sex:
Do it.
Hurry up.
And don’t talk.
The no-talking rule was the hardest to follow. It’s built into every parent’s DNA to respond to free-money requests with, “Do you really need that?”
An intelligent child questions everything.
Daddy proclaims, “Money doesn’t grow on trees!”
Son replies, “Money is made of paper, and trees are used to make paper… so trees are basically money.”
At that point a parent has two choices: argue with the kid or hand over the cash.
I accepted my destiny.
To avoid the hassle of constantly digging out my wallet, I briefly considered attaching currency to my clothing and letting my son grab it and go.
I didn’t.
But it seemed like a brilliant system.
When my son left for college, I knew the parental ATM would evolve into something bigger—a bank offering unlimited withdrawals, electronic transfers, and credit cards.
Still, there were changes I didn’t expect.
My vocabulary expanded to include unfamiliar terms like flex meal plan, capital gains tax, and 529.
I also learned a new swear word: bursar.
And its related cuss phrase: “Bursar you!”
Some of our old financial battles also resurfaced in new forms.
“Do you really need to buy lunch every day?” mutated into, “Given that you never eat breakfast, do you really need the 21-meal plan?”
“You hated your bunk bed and made me get rid of it—so why do you now need a loft for your dorm bed?”
My son’s rebuttals didn’t change much either.
“If you can afford an iPhone, why can’t I get one?” evolved into:
“You’re spending $20,000 on tuition—so what’s the big deal about renting a $175 loft for my dorm bed?”
Back in the parental ATM days, I would hand my son a crisp twenty-dollar bill and ask, “What do you say?”
After he pressed the appreciation bar, I released the cash.
The one perk of giving money to a vertically challenged panhandler was watching him enjoy the purchase.
Today I simply click a button to approve a transfer.
It’s faster and more efficient.
But something is missing.
Now the transaction is entirely virtual, and I feel less like a parent and more like a bank teller.
If I’m lucky, I’ll receive a text message with a cute Bitmoji that says “thanks.”
More often, the message arrives only after I send several follow-ups asking:
“Did you get the money?”
I finally understand the real meaning of grown and flown.
Grown means unlimited withdrawals.
Flown means electronic banking.
And, if I’m being honest, I miss the parental ATM days.
