Teresa Roig: "When our children grow up, we stop being present."

BarcelonaAt three months old, Pau was rolling over, and by nine months he was already walking. As a baby, he was a chatterbox. We read together a lot, and this, in addition to reinforcing his literacy development, also strengthened our bond, his curiosity, and his imagination. He would run out of the house, his eyes always sparkling.

And now, how would you portray it?

— Now, as a teenager, you see his inner world expanding and filling up with all his experiences, and he's learning to organize them. Just like his room. He speaks less, he thinks more. We're in a different league now, where he's part of the team in terms of responsibilities, like those around the house. And although it's not always easy, we continue trying to find and nurture spaces to share quality time together.

What gets heavier?

— Should he brush his teeth? Change his socks? Actually, neither. It's just that sometimes he's too good a negotiator. And when we're not entirely consistent, he reminds us.

And what do you find particularly enjoyable?

— Seeing how attentive and funny he is, how he can turn things around, and how he has a good sense of humor. He doesn't lie, nor does he get too angry, perhaps because he knows there's always room for dialogue, that an agreement can be reached, or that it's not worth getting worked up. And, although there's a certain sadness in watching him grow up, I also like to celebrate how he's becoming more and more independent, taking care of himself, protecting his privacy, and strengthening his autonomy. I like to see that everything we've been doing, what we might call free education or respectful parenting, has taken root, and that he's becoming a young man with good qualities and values.

What do you think your generation of mothers and fathers is not doing right?

— Well, look, in the transition from post-childhood to pre-adolescence, I think there's an important issue we overlook: presence. The continuity of presence. When they get older, we stop being present.

Explain it to me.

— When Pau was four years old, he told me one day about a teacher who "was never there." At home, he was used to a attentive, willing presence. Now he's in his second year of secondary school, and, just as we were told, with this change of stage comes a detachment, a disconnection, from families that is heartbreaking. The excuse is that "they're older now," that "they go it alone." But I think we're missing the opportunity to show them that we're still there for them when they need us. We adults confuse the process of our children's development, a process in which distancing isn't necessarily necessary, when, in fact, it's simply a matter of respecting their personal space.

What family habit are you especially proud of?

— Dialogue. At my parents' house, there wasn't much talking. The adults argued, and we kids had to keep quiet. Our opinions weren't heard. We were always "bothering" them. So you can imagine what kind of adolescence I had.

Have you taken your child to the place that inspired your novel?

— Not with him, but I found it funny when he dismissed the idea. From his point of view, "there's nothing interesting to do there if you can't run, jump, climb, or play ball."

It's not frowned upon...

— I have been there, with the son of the former tenant farmers who lived there for forty years. Today, the farm is an overgrown space that reminds me of the vacant lots where I used to play as a child in Igualada. Only in this case, its abandonment is a mixture of administrative neglect and nature's reclaiming of the land. The visit with the tenant farmer's son, his wife, and their children was a very moving journey back in time. I'm glad to have contributed to preserving their memory, which is both personal and collective, and also belongs to the Vallbona neighborhood. As the poet Vicent Andrés Estellés said: love makes love, and stories make history.

Remember phrases that your child has said to you at one time or another.

— For years I wrote down the things she said. These are the things she told me when she was three or four years old. "I like silent music. My brain sings it, but on the inside." One day when my partner and I were arguing, she said, "One of you two looks a lot like Grandpa Agustín, and I'm not going to say who." Another day she asked me, "Would you mind if I said a swear word?" And then she said "damn," but very quietly.