HE SAID:
I’m eager for numerous things over Thanksgiving break.
Per a former coach’s request, I’ll attend basketball practices with my high school’s current squad. A new cinema with stadium seating just opened, and I plan to catch up on my movie list. And certainly I’ll cherish the coma that results from turkey’s clever chemical — tryptophan (and its side-dish friends).
Yet one event of great anticipation might seem mundane — I can’t wait to ride in my dad’s newly acquired Subaru station wagon. No, driving it I don’t desire; I just want to see Pops grin as he revs his extremely practical ride.
He had an Acura Integra for roughly an eon, and the paint eroded so badly that the trees under which he parked must not have dripped sap but corrosive acid. The leather seats were shredded as though every passenger had knives for shoulder blades.
Still, I’m bummed the two-door is no more. I came to know that car very well. In fact, I feel it encompassed an evolution: my relationship with my parents. The vehicle as a thing is very telling of family.
When we were little tykes, parents often sacrificed loads of time for our extracurricular routines. They toted us in muddy cleats to the ball field, and they stuck around for moral support. Plus, who wants to miss their kid crush a homerun (just beyond the infield)?
Or they sped us over to Scouts just in time to watch with considerable boredom the troop tie sort-of-knots for an hour. Regardless, the vehicle not only made the delivery, but it stayed parked for the duration of family bonding.
Then we started wearing JNCO jeans and burning CDs, and the local mall became a misinformed nucleus for teen cool. Parents chauffeured us there at inopportune times, and we shed them and the car like unwelcome parasites, feeding on our tender reputation. I think deep down we appreciated the gesture, but the vehicle’s fleeting nature reflected the freedom we were beginning to explore.
Eventually we surpassed (most of) the angst and managed decent relations, but suddenly secondary school had passed. Just several years ago — only this fall for some — our parents brought us to the Tech campus, their vehicle completing its cycle in our lives as a one-way vessel. The Integra exited my every-day existence, and so did my parents.
And despite their absence, I’d argue that college manages to bring you closer to the empty-nesters.
In one regard, you’re still dependent on them, which becomes strikingly clear. You might not ask for a ride to the skating rink, but you’ll nudge their side for extra cash when your own whip gets towed from a friend’s apartment.
Although they no longer pack your Ninja Turtles lunch pale, you’ll still beg for sustenance when your dining plan magically empties with a month left in the semester.
Aside from bank accounts, though, you’re maturing into an adult, which yields a parental connection you didn’t have before. During those catch-up phone chats, discussions can range from the importance of internships to health insurance options. Their crucial knowledge makes the real-world transition tolerable.
But the topic isn’t always that heavy. Maybe it’s excitement over their upcoming visit. And it’s always fun when they (try to) weave into university life by pumping a keg at a party. Parent-child beer pong teams are somehow unstoppable, and even with no prior experience, moms throw flawless matches with the most seasoned cornhole players at tailgates.
So while they aren’t driving us to Dixie Youth, they do still toss balls by our side. And we’re not sewing Scout patches, but they can certainly guide our beanbag seams.
Maybe at the core, not much has actually changed. Except now we’re capable of giving back. I might ask to drive the Subaru next week then, in which case I’ll tell my parents the destination is finally up to them. And if it happens to be the mall, I’ll have to pull my 34-inch-pant-leg JNCO Kangaroos from the closet.
SHE SAID:
My current friends wouldn’t recognize the person I was in high school. I was a saint: a girl who never broke curfew, avoided classmates’ parties and always went to bed at 11 p.m. I rarely fought with my parents, and if I did, Dad always reduced me to blubbering, shameful tears.
But when I started college five hours away from my parents, I went crazy. I cut off all my beautiful hair and started dressing like a British pop-punk groupie, could sniff out a party every night of the weekend and I began to — gasp — stay out late with guys. The freedom was exhilarating. I wasn’t the “good girl” my parents had always known. I didn’t want to disappoint them, so I stopped communicating — and started rebelling.
My rocky relationship with my mom changed drastically in one moment. While at home, in the dumps about some dumb boy, Mother took one look at me.
“You look depressed,” she said. “Have a cigarette and a beer.”
In that instant, the “mom” image that I’d always known had shattered.
Don’t get me wrong. Throughout my childhood, Mother was always a great mom to my brother and me. She’d supported even my short-lived cheerleading stint, invented games for us to play on road trips, taught us the magic of The Beatles and made the best Philly cheesesteaks on the planet. But she was always strict, and I was afraid to cross her for fear of my life.
With the aforementioned “cigarette and beer” episode, Mother was no longer the stern “parental unit” I’d known. She was still my mom, but she’d transformed into my friend. She’d accepted that I was an adult and made my own decisions, even if I might be tarring up my lungs and decimating my liver.
Mother understood me as an adult and no longer a child, and since then we’ve become extremely close. If you want to get “Anne of Green Gables” about it, we’re “kindred spirits.”
Now when I visit my parents’ house, it’s not a matter of doing chores, having an early bedtime, or cloistering any bad habits I might have picked up in the last six years. We play Apples to Apples for hours on end, sing karaoke as Dad shreds on his custom Peavey guitar or we have a few beers and share stories around the fire pit. Now our relationship is very relaxed, unlike the twisted familial drama that played out my freshman year.
But for the most part, parents understand the collegiate lifestyle, as they were your age once. When you become an adult, barriers tend to break down.
For example, I’ve partied with some of my friends’ parents. When your friend’s dad, whom you still call “Mister,” whoops you on Champs’ air hockey table, or when a feisty mom is the star pong player at the party, you know that the dynamic has changed since high school.
Sharing these experiences with parents reaffirms that our folks can understand and treat us as fun-loving adults.
But some parents remain the dreaded “parental units.”
Once, I had dinner with a roommate’s rigid parents, and it was like going to O’Charley’s with Stalin and Mao. I was absolutely terrified of how I might offend them and the possible repercussions. I couldn’t even joke that my hobbies included “drinking” and “making poor decisions.” I sat still and chewed silently on my steak the entire time.
To those with “parental units,” I must congratulate you for being the ultimate hide-and-seek champions. Concealment of your collegiate vices from your parents takes a level of restraint that I couldn’t hope to possess. It’s painful enough for me to rein in my potty mouth, let alone keep a better part of my life secret from the people who used to change my diapers.
Of course, maybe you don’t have to worry. Maybe you’re like I used to be — a saint. But if your parents just think you’re one, don’t be shy about grabbing your friends’ parents and forming a devastating flip-cup team.
Trust me, it’s OK. When we’re our parents’ age, I bet we’ll be doing the exact same thing — for old time’s sake.