An Ode to Parenting

"The reason grandparents and grandchildren get along so well is that they have a common enemy." -Sam Levenson

When it comes to the blame game, no one gets more shit than parents. I've gotten past the age where I blame my parents for my issues. I spent the better part of my twenties focused on doing just that and found it both exhausting and pointless. There comes a time when you realize that the people who raised you are flawed, just like you. Having a kid doesn't make you smarter, holier or more reasonable. All it means is that you've chosen to replicate yourself in a smaller, more adorable version and are waging your bets that they'll turn out a little better than you did.

For a long time I felt my mother and father needed to be the picture of stability and sanity. Untainted pseudo-androids that had all the answers and a limitless bank account. The thing is they weren't, and I'm better off because of it. I did not have a conventional upbringing. It was more of a bohemian, absurdist performance art piece. Being punished in my home did not involve "time out." When my brother and I behaved badly, my father would threaten to change our names. He even went so far as to create fake paperwork. He once had me believe (for an entire week) that my name had been legally changed to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. My brother was very jealous as he had been re-named Nancy Drew two days earlier. This particular brand of punishment worked though, and we somehow turned out to be pretty well-behaved kids. Confused, sure. But at least we were polite.

My mother was just as creative in her child-rearing methods. Often times, when she was in need of a break, she would tell us how scary it would be if we "ran away"---she basically encouraged it. The prospect of scaring our mother was, of course, very alluring. So, off we'd go. I was in charge of creating the ransom notes while my brother was responsible for finding a good hiding place. We'd usually stay in said hiding place for hours on end, hoping that our parents would believe we'd finally been kidnapped. Meanwhile, my mother would enjoy almost a full day of peace and quiet until us kids either got hungry or decided that no one was going to start looking for us. Their strategies were bordering on genius, albeit mildly disturbing.

But not every decision they made worked out. Some things were very poorly executed: the divorce, the moving around from place to place, the inability to talk to us about anything having to do with sex, drugs, alcohol, and finances. We were not well trained in those areas, mostly because my parents were artist types that had few clues as to what was deemed acceptable to begin with. They figured we'd probably sort it out on our own...and we did. Did we turn out normal? Absolutely not. But nobody is normal. Normal doesn't exist. We were, however, loved. That was a constant. And that feeling, the feeling of being loved unconditionally, is all you can ask for from a parent. That and some cash.

Comments

[dadw5boys]

I LOVE IT.

[RealBlackGirl]

Thanks for the laugh and keeping it real.