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.
It's totally normal to hike up 3 miles at Macchu Picchu at 5 am, right? Every family totally does that.
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.
Leashes weren't available, and apparently neither were cribs.
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!
Cliff's parenting skills? Victory. His 'stash? Not so much.
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.
My how things change: Dave's a doctor, I'm 5'9''...but Cliff still enjoys gowns.
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!
Posted by M on Jan 22, 2010 in
Forced Family Fun To be a member of the Flood Family, especially an offspring of the infamous Cliff and Ann, takes a special type of person. While the three Flood children try to blend in seamlessly with society, we are, at the end of the day, just a little, well, weird. For your leisure, I’ve compiled a list of 10 attributes that one must fulfill to be a legitimate Flood Family member. Feel free to adapt any of them and join our community or just read them, store for later, and maybe dress up as a Flood for Halloween.
1. Never Take the Easy Path
Under no condition should you take the path of least resistance. Even if it is simply more easy and will get you to the same place as the difficult, windy path, take the hard path, just for kicks. For example, every single person in my family has changed their mind about their career after they were already in a different one. My mom was a nurse before she went to law school. My dad was a teacher before he went to law school. My older brother was working for JP Morgan before he decided, “ho hum, ho hum, medical school sounds like a party” and I was in the School of Education before I thought to myself, “My, this maize and blue is really clashing with my green eyes, I think I’ll go into Business.” Jacob, the youngest of our clan of freaks, has yet to hit this barrier. But he will. He can’t fight his DNA.
2. Feel Guilty Over Every Dollar You Spend
Whether you’re spending money on necessities (e.g. “you mean this prescription medicene is $40?! That’s outrageous. I’ll pass. People in the old days beat Mono without medication all the time!”) or just frivolous expenses (e.g. “Cover at Rick’s is free until 10. So even though the bar will be empty until midnight, off we go!”) money is always a sore subject with the Flood family. Although, let me be clear. This is more a forty/sixty split. Two members of our family are a little more, ahem, relaxed, with their credit cards, than the other three. But for the three of us, money is a consistent downer. I don’t like to use the term “frugal.” I prefer “efficient with money.” I always made fun of my Dad about how “efficient with his money” that he is. Until one day I realized I was just like him. That was a sad day.
3. Part Your Hair On the Right Side
From the parents to the kids, we all part on the right side. My hair is halfway down my back, and that right sided part remains. My dad’s lawyer cut? Right side part. David’s “I’m liberal and really cool and in touch with the world” look? Right side part. Jake’s “I’m in college, I don’t have time for things like a Right Side part” look? His hair literally falls on the right. It’s like our hair follicles had a team meeting before we were all born and were like, “Listen up guys, we’re going to fall to the right. Under no circumstances do you fall to the left. Even if Maggie spends an hour with her blow dryer and straightener screaming, “FALL TO THE LEFT YOU BASTARDS,” do NOT fall to the left. Okay? BREAK!”
4. Always Have a Five O’Clock Shadow
Female members of the tribe are obviously excused from this one, but gentlemen members, you must have a shadow on that face at all times. Do not shave it to the skin, unless you have an interview. That’s the only exception. Weddings, funerals, dates, family gatherings…you rock the beard. And if you do have to shave, afterwards, be sure not to shave for days in order to stick it to the man.
5. Live in Your Sweatpants During Holidays
Over long breaks when our family turns into hermits and locks ourselves into our cottage up north, you really only need to pack one outfit: a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. You’ll be wearing this for a week, so make sure it’s the comfortable kind, and not the kind you buy when you want to look cute when lounging. We’re family: we don’t have to look good around each other. At some point, you’ll feel gross in your outfit, but you’ll stay in it. Not only because it’s the only thing you brought, but because at a certain point, it becomes a competition: who can go the longest without washing their scrubs? So far, David’s been our hands down winner.
6. Have a Deep Passion for Cheap Mexican Food
Whether it be salsa or burritos, chicken quesadillas or tortilla chips, the Floods love their Mexican. While we snack on the tortillas and homemade salsa, we also find Mexican food to be the perfect food to: coat your stomach after you drink, eat while you’re drinking, and cure your hangover the next morning when your head is pounding and the sun is just a little too bright. While our family has a particular passion for Big 10 Burrito, anything resembling a tortilla and stuffed with chicken, beans, and whatever else you desire, will pretty much do the trick. Oh, and it HAS to be cheap. If anything runs over $2.00, don’t even think about buying it. Our motto is: cheap mexican or no mexican, thankyouverymuch.
7. Be Allergic to Dairy
The tragic truth is, we’re all allergic to a certain extent to dairy products. So to be a Flood, you’ll have to give up some of the things you love most in life, like ice cream or milk or cheese. And also, there will be no rhyme or reason to the foods that make your stomach feel like Mike Tyson just socked you or the ones that go down without a fight. For example, eating brownies (made with milk chocolate), make me want to remove my stomach from my body. Drinking a latte (which is chuck full of milk), makes me happy. Eating macaroni and cheese will ruin my night, but on occasion, I can get away with strawberry yogurt. It’s illogical. It’s just the way it works.
8. Watch an Insane Amount of Movies
The Flood family prides itself on the amount of movies we’ve seen. It’s outrageous. We’ve been members of Netflix and Blockbuster, we frequent websites where you download illegal movies, we’ll drive far distances to watch movies when they’re on limited release. You are also required to watch a lot TV series seasons on DVD. Get really into and watch six seasons of a show at once, preferably in your sweats (which of course, you haven’t washed and you also likely have a five o’clock shadow working). Order Mexican if you’re feeling really relaxed.
9. Eat Weird Food
While once upon a time, most of our family were pick eaters, we know eat just about anything. So be sure to go to restaurants and order something that sounds a little weird, but maybe has some potential. Eat ethnic food that no one else really likes, like Indian or Ethiopian. Be sure to drag other people with you and insist that they’ll like it, even if you’re pretty sure they won’t. Or, when you’re at the grocery store, buy weird food to tide you over for the week, like a bottle of salsa to eat just with a fork or a family size pack of gushers, even though you’re in your twenties and why are you buying gushers in your twenties?
10. Deny That Most of These are True
A true Flood would deny these are true, because we’re unable to admit that other people are correct. My mom will probably say, “Mexican Food! I don’t like mexican food!” as she makes her own salsa or creates her own pita chips from scratch. Cliff will insist he’s not frugal, he just “knows the value of a dollar, ok? Sheesh.” Jake does not always have a five o’clock shadow, he just doesn’t have “time to shave. I’m busy, ok? Sheesh.” And of course, David eats weirdly, but he never forces anyone else to, he just knows you’ll “LOVE it, ok? Sheesh.”
And me? I admit they’re true. But while my mother is a Flood by marriage, someday I’ll be able to escape this family and get a different last name. Then, maybe my hair will start to part on the left.
Posted by M on Feb 3, 2009 in
Forced Family Fun I have to admit, when my little brother left for college, I was a little concerned for my parents. I mean, after 23 years of having children to dote on and give love and attention to, I didn’t really know what they would do with all their spare time.
My brothers and I were all super busy throughout high school. Because our parents said we all had to play two varsity sports plus be active in clubs (gotta beef up that college resume), we’d kept them employed as professional spectators for as long as I can remember. Thus, when Jake left for college, I made it a mission to make sure they wouldn’t be too sad. How? I made sure to call every night. I emailed when I had time. I accepted the fact that my dog and my dad were going to be best friends and that it was probably healthy for Cliff to have something to play with, even if that thing is a four pound ball of fluff.
Hence, I wasn’t expecting this conversation:
Me: Hey Mom, how’s <insert’s son of family friend’s name> doing in his first year of college?
Mom: Great! His dad’s BARELY heard from him so everything’s SUPER!
….so wait? That kid doesn’t call home and his Dad just assumes he’s great and everyone’s thrilled. I call home every night out of the goodness of my heart and you’re somehow insinuating that I am less than super? I immediately cut my calls down to every other night.
I do go to college close to school though. So I’m not against asking my parents to come by for dinner. It gives me a chance to see them and make sure they’re holding up without me around, and of course, it’s free food. A few weeks after school started, this conversation occurred:
Me: Hey Mom, it’s Maggie. Do you want to go out to dinner this week?
Mom: Hmm, well, I’m really busy with my spinning class, plus I have a stepping class. Oh, and the girls are coming over for Margaritas on Thursday and then I have book club so I mean, of course I want to see you, honey, but I’m just really busy.
What?! My own mother is rejecting my company? Isn’t she supposed to be devastated over my departure? How can she even THINK about NOT having dinner with me?
I got the hint though. Ann and Cliff were puttering along fine without me to keep them company. So, I stopped worrying and had a good time at school all first semester. Then, the brothers and I came home for Christmas break. Mom had bought groceries and yummy food and seemed truly delighted to have us all home. This reinforced everything I’d originally suspected: they are masking their pain and truly weep at my absence. Which was the theory I clung to until this conversation came along:
Mom’s Friend: So, how’s it having everyone home?
Mom: Good! Well, except it’s loud and pretty messy. But I mean, they go back in a few weeks and the house can be clean again and take naps without hearing the piano blare through my earplugs.
While I’d like to think she’s just masking her pain so that no one realizes how truly deep she’s hurting, after I put all these conversations together, I’m starting to think perhaps she likes being an empty nester! That perhaps the woman enjoys not spending every Saturday morning at volleyball tournaments or every Tuesday and Friday night watching her sons plays sports! Spinning and Margaritas with the girls may NOT be her way of attempting to grieve for her loss–she might actually like that crap!
But that couldn’t be true, right? Right?
Maggie: Mom, that’s not true right?
Mom: Honey, I don’t really have time to talk, American Idol is on and your dad just poured me a glass of wine…
Posted by M on Jan 23, 2009 in
Forced Family Fun Disclaimer: I am, and will forever be, a total Daddy’s girl. I start this post with that because what I write below may come off as a mocking of my father’s parenting techniques, when in fact, I think the world of Cliff.
My dad grew up in a world a little different than the one my brothers and I were brought up in. As a result, he has a few, shall we say…traits?…that have stuck with him throughout his fifty odd years of life.
To begin, when I was younger, David, Jacob, and I were not allowed normal cereal. All we really wanted was some freakin’ fruit loops. But oh no. Dad would take those precious fruitloops and mix them with the healthy cereal. You know, the kind that no one wants, like regular cheerios or kix–without the yummy berries.
After we were stuffed with bland crap, Cliff, every Saturday morning for nearly twelve years, drove us 20 minutes to our early piano lessons in the woody mobile. The woody was an old fashioned van that replaced our first van (a prison van that Dad bought from a police station and would drive us to and from daycare in. He’s still proud today that the van, which was so old from carting so many convicts, was sold at a profit from a man who promptly destroyed it for parts). In our maroon and wood paneled van, we’d make the rounds every Saturday to pick up whoever had had birthday party’s the night before or sleepovers and wasn’t home yet. Oh no, no one was exempt from Saturday morning piano lessons. Even at 15 or 16 years of age, we were all driven to and from the lesson by Cliff, who insisted he was making us cultured. This is somewhat funny to everyone today, considering I can’t read, write, or play any music and in fact, don’t even know how to operate my own ipod.
Dad also likes to be chatty. He’s a flirt at heart, probably from his days as a footballer and total small town badass. We still have his varsity sweater, if anyone would like any proof of his prior awesomeness. As a result of his social butterfly status, Dad chats up waitresses. There’s no such thing as a quick order when he’s around. He has to ask the waiter twenty or thirty questions, including personal ones about her taste in beer or music, before our family gets so annoyed, we apologize and pretend like he is not well, you know, mentally.
In terms of shopping, Dad just doesn’t like spending money. The vans I mentioned before? The wood was around for 15 years before he made my brother drive it. And he bought it used. But Dad also recognizes that he has to have clothes. His answer? The Younkers Card.
The Younkers Card is what Dad uses for the semi-annual Younkers sale, where he can get sweaters and pants that don’t exactly fit nor are they in exactly flattering colors, but hey, they’re typically two or three dollars a piece and thirty bucks later, Dad’s set for the season. Of course, you can’t live on Younkers alone, so Dad tends to go through David and Jake’s closets looking for their outgrown clothes, which he promptly takes for himself.
Because Dad grew up in a different time, he’s mighty handy. While he did manage to practically rebuild, by himself, our first family home, today he doesn’t have as many projects. Therefore, the one’s he does have, he is very anal about. Our driveway never has more than thirty minutes worth of snow on it. And our grass? Mowed five times a week. That pristine lawn is also rigorously watched and watered all summer long.
Cliff is also way, way smarter than he gives himself credit for. When he was younger, he wanted to be a teacher and when he couldn’t find a job in Michigan, he did what all aspiring teachers do: He thought what the hell, why not law school? Right. After kicking some ass there, he got his first job at a big law firm downtown raking in a healthy salary. Of course, he was appalled he had to pay the five dollars a day to park, so he would drive to the strip mall several miles away, park his car for free, and then ride the public bus, which houses bums all winter long who need to stay warm, to the office.
Today, to keep his mind active, Dad spends hours doing Sudoku. He won’t put his iphone though, because he likes to erase by hand. It’s therapeutic, apparently. Also, Dad does not listen to the radio. Oh no, that’d be way too normal and not all embarrassing enough for him. Dad listens to books on tape. And when he runs out of books that he likes? Well, he went online and purchased some course lectures. Yes, the very same lectures that I myself hate going to all school year long and periodically fall asleep to. Dad loves ‘em. Listens to them fully and then reports back what he’s learned. How thoughtful of him, right?
Dad is a little corky, but all of those things have made him a pretty awesome Dad. And while I’m quick to complain, all of my friends adore going over to my house, just so they can see what antics he’s up to now. And I hate to admit, that now that I’m out of the house, I don’t eat the fruit loops sans the cheerios. It turns out, I actually like the cheerios by themselves. And they’re cheapter. It scares me a little when I realize that Dad’s cheapness is rubbing off on me. Just shoot me if I ever apply for a Younker’s card.
The first week of April from Kindergarten through senior year of high school was always Springbreak. Springbreak is a legend among kids. It’s the only time of year when everyone you know goes on vacation, to somewhere warm and fun, at the same time. Teachers would go easy on the homework, parents would go easy on the rules, and the countdowns until Springbreak would start soon after Christmas.
My parents, however, did not believe in merely fun Springbreaks. Oh no, if it wasn’t educational, then by golly, we were not doing it. Let me recount to you, my loyal readers, two of our earlier trips:
1. Virginia. This was my dad’s dream trip: seven days of dead President’s houses, museums, and to top it all off: Colonial Williamsburg. Is it warm in Virginia in April? No, sir, it is not. So while all my friends came back with tans and postcards of their tropical extravaganzas, I brought them back a postcard from where Sally Hemmings and Thomas Jefferson got it on. Racy? perhaps. Better than Panama City? No.
2. Washington, D.C. I actually love Washington, D.C. now. But when I was five or six (in my old age, my memory is beginning to suffer), it was one of the worst trips ever. Not because I knew nothing about U.S. history so big statuses of Lincoln or towers like the National Monument (which, by the way, I still hold is overrated. It’s just a big tower. My brothers built more complex ones with legos) meant little. But even worse, we walked like five miles a day. Nowadays, that’s not a huge deal. But in little kid steps, that’s like a marathon. And I was a chubby little kid. So, at the pathetic age of five, I lost my chafing virginity. Just another thing to tell my therapist, I suppose.
When we got a little older, my parents got pretty tired of all our complaining. I think they could tune us out when we were wee ones, with quiet voices that are neither threatening nor insistent. But when we hit teenagehood, the three Flood kids rallied together for a change. And my parents, always the lawyers with their sneaky, conniving little ways, had us fooled.
They suggested we go to Hawaii. “Hallelujah!” said we. A real Springbreak! We’re finally sun chasers like all the other kids! We packed our swimsuits, our towels, and got ready for a week on the beach. The parents, however, must have laughed to themselves all the way over to Maui. Where we spent the week not lounging, but instead, hiking the trails of Hawaii. Gorgeous? of course. Did that mean we wanted to do that? Of course not. As the only daughter in the family, I did get the easy way out. There were several occasions where frail, poor me just couldn’t handle another hike so my Mom and I would head into town to go shopping while my brothers and my Dad were forced on hikes that were so extreme (picture no trail, just a jungle of vines) that they’re still in recovery today.
I don’t mean to mislead you. We had some amazing Springbreaks and I was truly extremely lucky growing up to be taken all over the world. It just seems to be the Flood Curse that no matter how great a vacation we plan, something always ends up awry.
When we went to the Grand Canyon once, there was the first blizzard in twenty odd years, a blizzard so intense that they shut down the Highway. Of course, Michigan natives like ourselves, didn’t really find the blizzard that bad and drove through it. However, the blizzard did mean we couldn’t actually see the Grand Canyon. But hey, that’s in the details.
My parents took us to Italy once when I was in high school. We had to switch planes in D.C., and at the last minute, the flight attendants decided there wasn’t enough overhead room for our family’s carry-ons (nevermind the 100 passengers and their giant bags already onboard). Out of all those people, my poor parents had to have their bags checked. They were promptly lost. Cliff’s was recovered a few days later, tattered and slashed, like a mugger went to town on it. Ann’s bag was never found. Foreign country with a crappy exchange rate and no luggage? Of course that would happen to us.
There’s also the issue we have with getting sick while on vacation. Whether it’s food poisoning or water poisoning or just the a random attack of dehydration, my little brother in particular manages to catch it all. In LA, he had an ear infection that was so intense my mom had to check him in to the Emergency Room. In Mexico, he drank the water and ended up so sick that he asked for us to either illegally buy him morphine or simply knock him unconscious. I was willing to do the later, but my parents were not willing to let me.
In the end, I suppose our education vacations have been remarkably more interesting than my friends and their 12 trips to Panama City. While I didn’t appreciate them growing up, there is something kind of cool about saying that you’ve seen The Tree That Owns Itself or been to more National Parks than you have beaches. At the very least, it’s a quirky little fact about us.
When I was little and complaining, my parents used to tell me that when I grew up and had a family, I could do it my way and hit the beach every April. Now that I’ve had some time to reflect, I think that I would like to torture my children the way I was tortured. After all, they’ve got to lose that chafing virginity sometime…
