Part of my parenting role now is careful, considered detachment. There are books upon books about attachment, but the reality is a lot of that comes naturally. Sure, it’s exhausting, and you don’t always know if you’re doing it right, but instinct typically is your friend. When someone cries, it’s innate to reach out and console.

With a teen, everything seems to run counter to instinct. I want to reach out; I’m told to step back. I want to speak; I’m advised to remain silent. I want to listen; I’m given the silent treatment. I want to touch; I seem to be a repellent.

I’m told to let go but not completely, to stay in the game but accept the near-constant rebuff. At times I am vaguely afraid of my child’s varying moods. Whom I will meet when she enters the room? I am reminded of my childhood, of not knowing my mother’s state of mind. Would she be her bubbly engaging self or filled with vitriol over something I did wrong? Would she be overflowing with excitement about our day or unable to get out of bed?

I question how to stay engaged as a parent when every message I receive from G is to back off, stay away. Lisa Damour talks about being a potted plant, present but silent, available, consistent but not interfering. Michael Riera suggests being a consultant. I’m trying to wrap my brain around both. For better or worse, I think I’m pretty consistent. I’m here. I’m available. When I’m away I’m reachable. My rules, albeit few, are clear. The concept of being a consultant also works for me. The happy light in my brain goes off when G asks, “how does this rice cooker work?” I think, “I’ve been hired! I can help with this one.”

But is this parenting? Maybe it is. It’s odd. It’s uncomfortable. It’s a different kind of exercise in consciousness. Pema Chodron says, “to be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest.” In a sense both G and I are being thrown out of the nest. She is fulfilling her duty to fly, and my role as Mama bird is slowly coming to a close.

When G was little, one of the many games we played involved me proposing two ideas for our day, or two solutions to a problem, and letting her pick. Either answer was okay with me. I joked with X that sometimes G was my Magic 8 Ball.

These days, when the stakes are low and the issue is insignificant, I worry if my words or actions will expose me unnecessarily to G’s wrath, despair, or other landmine. (I try to reserve those experiences for moments of consequence.) Should I knock on her door or wait indefinitely until she comes downstairs? Should I charge her computer and risk getting in trouble for touching her gear? I can waste a fair amount of emotional energy wondering needlessly about such matters.

When I ran into a Magic 8 Ball this holiday season, I saw a possible remedy.

Do I go next door to see if she’s babysitting tomorrow? I ask.

It is decidedly so. Magic 8 Ball replies.

If it had said my reply is no that would have been okay, too. Either way, I am flooded with relief because I have a plan. Not only that, I have a laugh at myself and feel a little less alone.

My friend Ame’s Magic 8 Ball helped me when I was a little kid, wondering if I should brave my mother’s moods to ask about a sleepover. Now it has come full circle.

I use my brain and heart for the big stuff, but when vacillation about the small stuff hits, this classic toy is often just the help I need to navigate the confusing terrain we are traveling now.

Shake. Wait for one of twenty replies.

And travel forth.