Weirdo parents? Nah, just your typical family
My parents came to see me for Trojan Family Weekend Saturday.Like most parents, mine certainly aren’t normal. They’re, well… insane.
I first thought my entire family would be coming to visit for Trojan togetherness. My dad had left a message on my answering machine 10 minutes long that contained about three seconds of pertinent information. God forbid my dad just tell me who was coming, when they were coming and whether they needed a ride from the airport. I heard about everything from my car’s status to getting money, ad nauseam.
It seems ridiculous that someone can jabber endlessly. But then, that’s my dad.
My father is an extremely friendly and outgoing man who can literally talk the jaw off of someone. He can learn the life story of just about anybody in one conversation, and his affable personality lets him talk to just about anyone.
Up until recently, my dad worked in a high-stress job for Sega of America. As an accountant, he was working 80-plus hour work weeks for salary pay, meaning overtime was not reimbursed. Fortunately, he found a job that has much better hours and pay, so now he can hang out with my brother.
My mother is a clean person. By clean I don’t mean that she feels compelled to wash her hands every 10 seconds or showers eight times a day. My mom wants her house clean.
We must go through a vacuum cleaner every four or five months because my mom vacuums incessantly. It’s not to get rid of dust. The average life span of a dust bunny in our house is less than an hour. My mom vacuums to get rid of footprints. Don’t even ask about the room we’re not allowed to step in.
So my dad, the SuperTalker, and my mom, CleanWoman, show up at my fraternity house’s pre-game barbecue without my brother and a day late.
It was good to see my parents. My dad grabbed a beer and talked to some of my fraternity brothers, and my mom was pleasantly surprised to see that my room wasn’t a complete disaster area. Given that I’d spent more than a few hours cleaning my room, even going so far as to baking soda-ing the floor, I would have hoped so.
At the football game, my parents–football fans in their own right–cheered and yelled with me. My mom kept commenting that John Allred was truly a “tight end” while I groaned with embarrassment.
Later, at dinner, I had a surprisingly normal conversation. I commented that it must be weird having adult conversations with one’s children and my mom thought it was wonderful.
I think I’ve fully grown out of the stage where I’m required to hate my parents. I’ve found myself to be just as weird as my parents, and I’m glad. I just hope my kids are equally crazy.