My Minneapolis Summer: Happy Mather’s Day

In an email to my longlost brothers the other day, we (or I, since I”m the only kid that remembers this crap), realized that I would be the only kid in the United States for Father’s Day this year. Which means I’m probably the only kid that managed to send Cliff a card and likely, will be the only kid that manages a phone call (skype doesn’t count, losers). Besides the obvious factoid that I now have cemeted my place as Cliff’s favorite, this conclusion is interesting for two reasons: the first is that this is the first holiday ever where not one Flood baby is eligible to make it home and moreover, for Mother’s Day, we were all out of the country too. I find it a little ironic that two people spend the majority of their lives raising little zygotes into kids,those little former fetuseseventually peace out and aren’t even available for a simple brunch to celebrate the two investers (read: parents) who have funded their adventures.

 

Perhaps for my family though, celebrating Father’s or Mother’s day is a little silly. Before you flame torch for me stating that such Hallmark Holidays aren’t pertient to the mental health of my parentals, let me assure you that my parents deserve holidays and special gifts more than any other parents I know. Traveling Brother, Doctor Brother, and I were not always the easiest bundles of joy to handle. And baby leashes weren’t even invented until I was like, 10, so they weren’t an option to keep us unde rcontrol. Plus, spanking became quite the faux paus around the time David took the stage.

What I mean is that my parents do not fall into the typical Mom or Dad role. They approach their marriage and their family as a team effort. It’s not always flawless, but it has set an excellent example for my siblings and I as to what to look for in relationships: teamwork, unselfishness, and the ability to put others before yourself. I’ll save the analysis of their relationship for their anniversary (ha! who actually thinks I’ll blog then?), but I will say this: If I’m half as happy as my parents are when I’ve been married for 30 years, I’ll be happier than the time I lost five pounds following a strictly ice cream diet (oh, the days before lactose intolerance were the glory days).

 

So, for the parents out there that did parenting right, that approached raising their little seeds of joy using a tag team philosophy, I have invented a new holiday for you: Mathers Day. Here’s to you, parentals. You sometimes were annoying, overly strict, and frustrating but hey, I’m 21, not knocked up, and I’m pretty happy overall. You can label yourself victorious!

Therefore, I would like to focus some kind words on Ann and Cliff’s parenting skills. For them, it was always a joint venture (if they hadn’t been so awesome, I wouldn’t have gone to college to even learn that term!) Sure, sometimes Cliff cooked more or Ann yelled more or Cliff used his stern voice while Ann approached things with a more sensitive attitude, but for the most part, every decision they made or assistance they offered us was after taking a time out to conferance as a team. They used their joint resources to make sure that each kid got the best of what they had to offer.

 

In this case, I’m the blacksheep simply because I’m lacking the matching haircut

Of course, you want examples. Readers are so needy. I remember when I was knee deep in the awkward years, I had some english homework that I didn’t understand. I spent a few (probably 30 seconds) attempting to comprehend it on my own, and then I went for help, seeking out my Mom rather than my Dad, simply because I always asked him. I figured she might want a shot. After reading her the assignment, she looked up at me and just said, “yeah, your dad’s a lot better at that stuff than me. I think he’s downstairs.” But, I also remember calling home once from college because I was really sick and wasn’t sure how to handle it. Cliff answered the phone and after relaying my symptoms, he replied, “yeah, let me grab your mom for you. She’s a lot better at this stuff than me.”

 

My mom picked out every one of my prom dresses, but my Dad was the only one I’d believe as to whether or not they looked pretty. My dad is the first person I look to for advice when figuring out what my next move should be, but my mom’s the only person I trust when it’s time to click the button or submit. Like most girls in their twenties, I have a body image slightly distorted by the media and sale associates in stores like Forever 21. The only person I trust with an outfit or to take me shopping, is my mom. And the only person I trust to tell me the truth as to whether or not that loaf of bread I had for breakfast made me instantly obese, is my Dad.

 

Nowadays, the mathers can only dream of me wearing a dress down to my ankles. 

Now that I’m older, I appreciate the way I was raised more than ever before. I might have some self-confidence issues and I might be just a little corky, but compared to many of my peers, I’m extremely well-adjusted. My resume is super impressive–I’m currently in a 85% MBA internship program because of how much I’ve manged to cram into two years of college–and I wouldn’t have accomplished any of it without my parents constantly urging me to try a little harder, risk a little more, do the very, very best you can! Not to mention, my mom edited my resume and my Dad reviewed it. You can bet your ass there’s not a spelling error on that thing.

 

I remember the day my brother called home to tell my parents he was going to med school. I’m sure there were calls galore before this one and after, and I’m sure that it was not such a monumental moment as I’ve built it into my brain to be. But, I do remember sitting at the long oak table in our kitchen and Doctor Brother was on the line in the kitchen, telling my parents that he was definetly going to turn down his Big Boy job to pursue medicene. This job was amazing for a kid out of college—the kind of job that would support Brah for years.I remember each parent picked up a line, my brother said whatever little ditty he’d practiced, and then they hung up. My mom announced, “So Dave’s going to med school.” Cue glance at Dad, who nodded and they both kind of mutterred, “wellll, whatever makes him happy.” And then they just went back to watching Survivor. The thing is, that reaction to such a life changing decision, is the norm in my house. My parents put our happiness before all else: before our monetary potential, before our academics, and most notably, before themselves. 

 

I think the best test as to how good of parenting skills one has, however, is when they kick their kids out of the nest and they see how they fly. And by fly, I mean how they make their own decisions. Parents hand them tools their whole life and then at some point, they check to see if you can do it alone. And if I may mention, I don’t want to do it alone. I’m not ready to grow up. But, Ann and Cliff gave me the flipping Prada of tools to make choices with–even if it’s not a choice they’d make me for me.

 

For example, when I decided to transfer colleges, it was a choice I made by myself. I can see my parents perspective on it: I was at a very good school and it was hard, but they knew the payoff would be worthwhile if I could just remember the Big Picture (future parents to be, take note. Big Picture is a metaphor that you should utilize often). But I didn’t. I made my own choice and they didn’t really get it at first. Except, they gave me every tool I needed to make that decision. And it hasn’t always been easy, but it was the right choice for me. If I had crappy parents or had been raised to not be independant and not make big girl choice solo, I’m not sure how this would have played out. But, I’m thinking not very well.I’m a super lucky little girl and I know it. 

 

So, Happy Mather’s Day, Ann and Cliff! I’m sorry I’m not home to make you breakfast in bed, which would probalby just leave crumbs in that extra comfy bed you have (so a late night snack for Charlie), a mess in the kitchen, and likely give you a stomachache, since neither of you really eat breakfast anyways. Thanks for being super parents. If I knew sports, I’d totally use a metaphor here about how you should win some championship for parenting because your team is great. But I don’t. But I love you extra much anyways, I wish I could celebrate with you today!