Better with Age

Another writing sample from my class last weekend...

As a young child, perhaps four or five, I remember someone asking me how old my parents were. I of course had no real idea, why would a child know such a thing? But I assumed I knew. My mother was in her twenties and my father was in his fifties. In reality, they were 32 and 36, respectively, but I had logic backing up my guesstimation. My mother had a beautifully smooth face and raven hair that I likened to one of her favorite singers, Cher, who in my mind was also in her twenties. My father on the other had had light hair and a farmer’s tan like my grandpa. Moreover, he had a mustache. Obviously only men in their fifties had mustaches.

As I got older it became apparent to me that my parents were slightly older than those of my classmates and friends. Being from the Midwest it was natural to have your first child before your twentieth birthday and apparently most of my friend’s parents had. My mother recalls my embarrassment at the fact that they were ever so slightly older than the parents of my peers. I suppose I attributed their old age to them being less fun. My mom especially, she was always less fun. She was the rule maker, and while she denies it, the wearer of the pants. Her mandates were overbearing and absolute: only sugar free products were to be consumed; this included but was not limited to Jell-o, Kool-Aid and gum, no MTV, no Simpsons and no highly processed foods. We had to go to church every Sunday. Compared to my friends, with their young, hip parents, I lived in a prison camp.

As I moved into high school I realized that shockingly, there were people with parents older than mine. Several of classmates had parents in there sixties! I was delighted to discover that now my parents were somewhere in the middle of the pack instead of the old dogs, waiting to be retired. Upon closer inspection, it appeared that my parents weren’t even that oppressive or uncool. They refused to join my high school’s Parent Network, an organization designed for parents to police their teenagers so that punishments could be doled out promptly and accordingly. While I did have a curfew, it was later than many of my friends and I rarely had to ask for permission to attend social events. I was even allowed to go to concerts with boys, on school nights. My mom worked and traveled all over the world and would fly my friends and I to stay with her in various locations. My dad was a marathon runner and helped coach cross-country. He may have been wearing spandex, but he was the only coach to actually work out with his athletes. They both encouraged me to be my own person and think independently. Ultimately, they allowed me to move to London on my own at 19.

Now that I am a grown-up and inching closer to 30 everyday, I believe that I have won the parent lottery. Perhaps the genetic lottery as well. My parents both continue to not only age gracefully but also to encourage me to pursue my ever-changing dreams, wherever they take me. While other parents are hounding their children about marriage and grandchildren, mine have embraced my decision to put that option on the backburner. Even if my mom does it somewhat begrudgingly, she accepts that the only grandchild she’s getting out of me, at least for the time being, has four legs and a tail. My dad, at 60, runs marathons with me and humors me by wearing the goofy shirt I handmade to match mine in order to designate us as a father-daughter duo. They may not always get my sense of humor, but they laugh at my jokes. They continually ask how I turned into such a free-spirited, open-minded, liberal thinking hippy, and all I can tell them is that it’s because of them.