“The
Fine Print”, by M.H. Schrader
Once a Parent, Always a Parent
Well, it’s over. And the Missus and I are still speaking to each other. Which is, of course, quite good. Sometimes it just doesn’t turn out well--at all.
Like many married couples, one of the
things we end up arguing about is family.
In fact, in order to keep peace, we have decided that the best way to
avoid arguing about family is not to talk about it at all. So, we completely avoid the topic.
However, there are some times when we
just can’t avoid talking about family.
It is rather hard not to talk about family when you are visiting family
or family is visiting you. And this
past weekend was one such time.
One of the greatest things about living
in Arkansas is that our families don’t.
Both of us love our families to death, but, quite frankly, they drive us
crazy!
Part of it has to do with the Mom thing
of seeing grown children as they were when they were five years old. “Yes, Mom, I know to wash my hands before
eating.” “Yes, Mom, I will look both
ways before crossing the street.”
The other part of it is those
embarrassing family idiosyncrasies. You
know, like when your mother tells total strangers that she meets at Wal-Mart
how you used to run around the yard naked (or in Mom-ese, “in your birthday
suit”) when you were three.
Not to sound callous, but I, quite
frankly, can only take family in small doses.
After a few days, I’m ready to say my good-byes and get on with my life
again. I really don’t know why, but
after a few days with family I become downright grumpy, which of course causes
Mrs. Schrader to become downright grumpy, and, as any married man will tell
you, making one’s spouse grumpy is not something you want to do, unless, of
course, one is into torture and that sort of thing.
Needless to say, the days before any
family visit are always anxious ones in the Schrader household. And, because of this anxiety, family visits
are generally, well, tense. And,
tension usually breeds more tension, which breeds more anxiety, which breeds
impatience, which breeds a quick temper, which breeds arguments, which breeds
knockdown-dragouts.
With that in mind, then, you can
understand the high anxiety filling the Schrader household this past week, as
this past weekend was a parental visit weekend. Surprisingly, it did not end in a knockdown-dragout. This in and of itself is quite an
accomplishment, as a peaceful family visit occurs about as frequently as the
Hale-Bopp comet.
Perhaps it was because my folks came down
to celebrate daughter Elizabeth’s birthday.
Perhaps it was because our lives are so busy, there isn’t enough time to
think. Perhaps it was because they did
not stay at the house. Perhaps, just
perhaps, it was because we are all one year older, one year wiser, and just a
little more tired.
I’m not saying, however, that the weekend
did not have it’s tense moments, because it did. I’m not saying that it did not have it’s embarrassing moments,
because it did. But it didn’t end it
the usual knockdown-dragout that I expect with each and every family visit.
Both families are, well, rather
opinionated. And both families believe
that unless you agree with them you are just flat out wrong, and thus will go
to any lengths to convince you that their word is gospel. And herein lies the problem--you see, I also
have an opinion, and it is not necessarily the same as theirs.
It’s a funny thing with parents--they
believe that you cannot have a contrary opinion because they’re your parents.
“I went through fifty hours of hard labor
with you, and all you can do to me is give me grief. Shameful.”
“But Mom, I’m a grown man now. I can make my own decisions.”
“I don’t care how old you are. I’m your mother, and I always will be. I changed your dirty diapers, and fed you
bottles. I took care of you when you
were sick. How could you treat me so
coldly?”
The reasons why you cannot disagree with
your parents goes on and on. And so
does the guilt. It doesn’t matter how
old you are, your parents will always think that “you’re just a kid; you don’t
know nothin’”.
I’ve always thought that embarrassment of
one’s children when they are adults must be a God-given perk of
parenthood. Call it payback for grief,
if you will. Like when your mother
pulls out your baby pictures for all your high school friends. (Fortunately for me, being the fifth child,
I have no baby pictures, so this never happened to me.) Or when your mother proceeds to tell your
coworkers about the cute little things you did when you were a boy. In my case, being the youngest of five, my
mother still likes to refer to me as her “baby.”
When you think about it though, our
parents really do deserve the right to embarrass us. After all, we do embarrass them enough. I know there are times when one of my girls says something that
really embarrasses me, and I’m sure that there were times (although I really
can’t remember them) when I said something that really embarrassed my parents,
and being the good parents they are, they just smiled and suffered the
humiliation.
Despite all the real and perceived
embarrassment and stubbornness, I still love my parents, and they still love
me. But, sometimes parents, like
medicine, can only be taken in small doses--a little at a time will help you
feel better, but too much at any one time can be hazardous to your well-being.