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parent wars episode iv: a new hope

If you live for this article every week, rising early Sunday morning to turn on the computer in eager anticipation that cloying ring indicating that you have new mail, then last week, I really dropped the ball.

However, if you live for this article every week, rising early Sunday morning to turn on the computer in eager anticipation that cloying ring indicating that you have new mail, then you have bigger problems to address.

Last week, my parents were in town.

For a week.

And they stayed with me and A.

I knew they were coming into town, they didn’t have to tell me. My cousin was getting married in Santa Barbara at the end of March, but as the date grew near and the plans became finalized, I went through the Five Stages of Impending Parental Visits:

1. Denial

It’ll be fine. It’s always fine. We’re all adults. It’s going to be good. No, it’s going to be better than good, it’s going to be fun! We’re going to laugh and eat and drink and hang out. My parents are great! Hell, my parents are awesome! My parents are the parents that everyone wanted! I love those guys! It’ll be just like when I was growing up. I can’t wait!

2. Anger/Resentment

Hang on, I was a miserable child! I hated everything, myself most of all! It’s their fault! And now they’re gonna come here and pretend like it all didn’t happen, that we were all always perfect and charming and nothing ever went wrong. And all we’re gonna do is eat for a week straight, and then I’ll be even fatter than I am now. You can’t tell them no, they don’t know the meaning of the word no. It’s going to be miserable. Did I mention it was all their fault?

3. Bargaining

Okay, how about this, I’ll just be cool. And if I’m cool, they’ll be cool, like a coupla Fonzies. If they don’t bring up the mis-remembered stories of my childhood and trot out Nina’s Most Embarrassing Moments, I can be an adult. That’s it. I’ll be an adult if they’re adults. And then it’ll be okay.

4. Depression.

“I’ll be an adult if they’re adults?” Am I high? This will never work.

5. Acceptance.

Okay, they’re coming and there’s nothing I can do about it. So I just need to suck it up and get over it. OlderSlackBrother J. just bought a house with a pool, his lovely wife is pregnant, I’m sure that SlackMom and SlackDad will want to spend most of their time over there. I’ll just email them and suggest that they stay with them.


The email:

To: slackmom
From: slackmistress

I don’t know where you’re planning on staying while you’re in town, but I’d like to invite you guys to stay with us. My only request is that dad must be clothed when he’s roaming about the house. And clothed means more than underwear.

Apparently, I was high.

The visit, however, went just fine. From my end, anyway. Mainly because I have decided to attempt to shelve any of my resentment that I have toward them. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have much resentment toward my parents, but I have some. That’s just part of growing up. But the other part of growing up and gracefully edging into my early thirties (31, to be exact) is that I’m beginning to see my parents’ side of the equation. I can’t imagine being married right now and having the responsibility of raising another human life, much less two or three. Being aware of things like this is what brings me to the conclusion that I don’t want children of my own (although I am eagerly awaiting SlackNiece or Nephew this October).

Of course, we still did have our moments. One day we spent swimming in Older SlackBrother J.’s pool, where I spent most of my time liberating the ladybugs that had flown too close to the surface of the water. We all dried off and trudged inside for some food. J. and SlackMom had bough an assload of cold cuts from the local grocery store which had a selection not only of the basics, but also some Russian favorites.

Like Head Cheese. And Tongue. And something called Blood-n-Tongue.

Now that you’ve gotten over the dry heaves, I’ll let you in on a little secret: SlackMom used to feed the above to Older SlackBrother J. and me when we were toddlers.

You can see why I have some resentment toward my parents, yes? A. will probably never kiss me again.

So we started putting together the makings for lunch: rye bread, some turkey, some salami, some cheese.

Life is good. Until SlackMom starts pulling out her goodies.

Do you want some tongue? she asks.

Have I ever wanted some tongue? I reply.

I sit down in front of the TV (SlackFamily eats at the dinner table only when we are all present at the SlackHome in the Midwest. The TV is the gathering place when one is in the Field.) and start to nibble. SlackMom continues.

You used to eat Head Cheese all the time when you were a kid.

Don’t remind me.

You used to think it was great.

I also thought I could make an oven out of wire, some sunlight, and a cardboard box. Now if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate it if we could talk about leftover cow organs when I’m done with my sandwich.

Fine, SlackMom says. She turns to Younger SlackBrother j. Do you sell tongue at (the fancy grocery store he works at)?

I put my sandwich down.

I know this means little to you, but I’m eating.

I don’t think so. Younger SlackBrother j. responds. You know, we do sell Lardo.

I turn green.

It’s basically bacon without the meat, he continues.

Uh, guys? Did I mention to you that I’m eating?

Oh, sorry, SlackMom says. We’ll stop.

Thank you.

I return to my sandwich.

She heads into the kitchen and calls out

Would you like a little head cheese?

And that, Your Honor, is when I killed her.

But the trip went fine, it went better than fine. Because except for the few bumps in the road, we all realized that we’re lucky to have each other. Yes, we’re all crazy as loons, we eat and smoke and drink too much in each other’s presence, but we really do love each other. And when it got tough and I wanted to retreat into that snarky, angry, bitter adolescent that I once was, I just took a deep breath and thought just act like they're someone else’s parents and it was all okay.