In order to effectively cover this topic, I will have to split my parents up. As my parental unit, our relationship is pretty simple and boring. When it’s the three of us, we talk about mundane crap like the weather, or food, or whatever show happens to be on TV at the time. Most times, we talk about the pets.
Me: (pointing at a huge red, bald spot on their dog’s back) Hey, what’s wrong with Skippy?
Dad: What are you talking about? There’s nothing wrong with that dog.
Mom: Oh, he’s got a rash….he keeps aggravating it. I keep telling your dad to buy him some ointment. But, he hasn’t yet.
Me: You want me to go buy some?
Dad: NO! He’s fine. Worry about your own dog.
Mom: (rolling her eyes) Babe! He has a rash! He needs ointment.
At which point my Dad walks away and my mom whispers to me how wonderful it would be if I’d buy some ointment. She’ll even pay me back.
That’s about it.
It’s not very exciting, is what I’m trying to say. We have nothing else to talk about. My blog entry would stop here if I didn’t separate the two. And, I know y’all are at the edges of your seats wondering what kind of crazy ass parents someone like me must have, right? So, I’ll keep going. You’re welcome.
When I was a kid, my Momma was my world. I remember wanting to wear her clothes and jewelry. It was through her that I learned to love to read. In my teenage years, we bumped heads quite a bit as I tried to discover who the heck I was. As it turned out, she was right about a lot of things that I stubbornly wanted to learn the hard way. Now that I’m an adult, my Momma is my friend, my confidant AND my mother. I appreciate her words of wisdom and I admire her thirst for life. If it weren’t for her obsession with saving the world from itself by shoving petitions in my face all the time, I’d say she was perfect. (For more on my how I feel about my Momma’s petitions, click here: One-Eyed African Tigers Can Kiss My Ass.)
Dad is a man of few words. He wears a permanent scowl on his face. He works ALL THE TIME. Growing up, we didn’t see him much and when we did, he was mad a lot. Work will do that to you. That’s one of the reasons I’ve given up on stressful jobs. If I ain’t saving lives, it ain’t worth my sanity! But, he was raised in a different time and under different circumstances. I didn’t really know my Dad growing up. He was there, but he wasn’t really THERE. Kinda like now, except he’s not as mad all the time any more. I will say that I feel a bit closer to him (which still isn’t all that close) now that he’s an old fart than I did when he was a younger, more vivacious buck. I’ve had to spend quite a bit of time with him over the last few years – at doctor’s appointments, surgeries, etc. There was this one time I even had to protect him once from my Momma’s physical abuse after he had back surgery. She thumped his face and patted him hard on the back – love pats, she called them. She obviously “loves” him differently than she loves her children. (Click here to read about that incident: Turns Out My Parents Are Into Some Kinky, Sadistic Sh*t!.)
So, as it turns out, my parents are only a fraction of the crazy that I turned out to be. Not sure where I get it from. Maybe all the lead paint I chewed on as a child?