Help! We’ve finally become our parents!
I always thought it was something that single or divorced people
try to scare you with, but apparently It’s true; you really do
marry your parents. The Husband illustrated this to me the other
day when he was citing the similarities between his mother and
myself.
Help! We’ve finally become our parents!
I always thought it was something that single or divorced people try to scare you with, but apparently It’s true; you really do marry your parents. The Husband illustrated this to me the other day when he was citing the similarities between his mother and myself.
“You both have to have things your way,” he began. “If I try to put something away and it’s not facing the right way, you’ll come up behind me and fix it.”
I bit my tongue as I fluffed the pillows on the couch the right way. When did he get so much insight all of a sudden?
I was also silent about how it seems I’d married my father. As a kid, we had a no-car garage since ours was filled with various pieces of cars, but rarely a car in its completed state. To say that my father is a car buff is a ridiculous understatement since at the age of 62 and a half, he’s still drag racing all over the country.
Now, my garage is filled to the brim with The Husband’s “finds.” An exercise bike, assorted large tools, ice chests in every conceivable size and his very sturdy shelving system.
As a kid, our yard was big, sure, but it was largely un-landscaped until my mother threatened to hire people to “clean out the garage.” Mom had a nickname for my father which I actually found coming out of my mouth a few months ago – “The Seagull.” Dad apparently had a habit of walking in the door and dropping things all over the house, leaving a trail of keys, wallets, socks, bills and even pants in his wake.
The Husband is also a large bird that leaves his “droppings” throughout the house. Shoes, papers, lunch boxes, small hand tools and ironically enough, pants.
Our front yard had been in differing stages of done-ness for some time. We got serious a few weeks ago in our quest for the greenest lawn on the block by yanking out ugly plants, using The Big Red Suburban and some rope, in between the endless field hockey tournaments.
I was okay with the slow progress for a while, but then I began to get impatient. The neighbors were beginning to whisper in clusters in their front yards filled with manicured greenery.
I could imagine my mother avoiding eye contact with anyone on the block when she’d unload the groceries from the behemoth of a blue ’74 station wagon that got so hot in the summer, we had to have dish towels on the seats or you’d burn your legs on the faux leather seats. She also kept a towel over the steering wheel after nearly 2nd degree burns trying to drive out of the driveway in 90 degree weather.
Much like her, 33 years later, while getting the mail, I’d smile and wave a fast hello before running back into the house away from accusing eyes. It happened!
We’d become “Those” neighbors. There’s one on every block. You know- crappy car in the driveway, up on blocks, trash cans left at the curb, tufts of grass attempting to grow through cracked earth; victims of an unreliable watering schedule.
I was devastated. We were so young. So cool. When did we become our parents?
I’ll think about that later, but now I have to find a way to get out of the house without the neighbors seeing me.
