909952_isolated_blank_greeting_card_with_window.jpgAs a kid, money was my favorite present; preferably cash since I could go out and use it immediately. I could never leave a store with any money left over, probably a lesson I picked up from the old Wheel of Fortune where the contestants had to spend their winnings in Service Merchandise show rooms. The happiness was much anticipated and quickly over.

When I was seventeen my dad gave me a checking account. In spite of the $100 opening deposit that gift didn’t go over so well. It was a smart idea to try and teach his son about managing money, however I saw through it immediately. It was like being given a neck tie, a symbol of the grey oppressive adulthood that lay before me.

That was not the last time I received money from my parents, but those times (especially in college) were rarely cause for celebration. There were a few other times after college (and student loans) I legitimately needed help, but that was nearly four years ago. And still every year like clockwork, the money comes on Christmas, birthday and sometimes even Easter. They’ve been politely offering to buy me a housewarming present from IKEA for the last year.

For those of you who haven’t read my bio, I’m thirty two years old, living on my own and working as a business analyst. I make relatively good money and as you’d expect from a personal finance blogger, I manage it very well. So when my dad hands me a couple of twenties when I visit or my aunt sends a fifty dollar check, I’m a bit mystified as to how I should feel.

While free money is good, I don’t have the most exciting plans for it. A large chunk of my personal savings is windfall money I put aside immediately rather than spend. It’s just the sort of responsible thing my dad wished I would have done when I was seventeen.

Still it’s a little embarrassing to my inner adult, like having my mom start cutting my steak for me in a fancy restaurant. While we go through many developmental milestones on our path to becoming independent adults, the relationship with our parents is sometimes slow to change. They still remember us in diapers.

I’ve never been a big fan of the old “oh you shouldn’t have” vs. “oh but I insist” dialogue. If someone makes a move for the bill at a restaurant, I don’t try to tackle them. I generally trust that when people offer to do something it’s because they want to and I accept graciously. After all I’m lucky to have supportive parents who are in a position to offer their financial assistance.

But for the sake of discussion’¦ At what age would you say we’re too old for parental handouts?


When not sitting in a “grown up chair” and drinking from his “big boy cup”, Mike writes Broken Cupid, a dating blog for single gay guys.