I didn't mean to eavesdrop. It couldn't be helped. I was sitting at Panera's having a late morning latte when a trio of friends sat down at a table next to me and started chatting. In my defense, they were using their outside voices–or close to it.
I started picking up on the conversation when one man, a father, started waxing caustic about his son's request to be treated as a "best friend" rather than as the man's son.
"I told him," the dad reported to his captive audiences, "I'm your parent. I'll be your best friend when I can come to your house, open the refrigerator and eat anything I want; when I can drink your milk right out of the carton; when I can sleep over anytime I want; when I can drop by without letting you know; when I can leave without closing the door."
His friends all gave him a fist-bump of an Amen. Given his parade of horribles, I did too, although I did want to turn around and reassure him that his young-adult son was likely to outgrow his juvenile habits; that if he could give his son growing bits of leeway, their relationship would morph from parental disciplinarian to comradely adviser. His son might be chaffing against parental control–isn't that what growing up is all about?–but the dad was fortunate that his son wanted a friendly relationship, even if it was an eventuality. But I kept my comments between me and my latte.
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