Being a parent must be hard. It’s almost too easy to criticise your parents in today’s culture. Not that I’m saying there isn’t a lot to criticise, but there seems to be a brazen lack of compassion between children and their parents. There must be so much fear attached to being a parent, so much pressure to be the parents who allow their kids a happy upbringing. I can understand why most of my friends’ parents look slightly crazed most of the time.
But I want to take the time to recount some of the good my parents did for me, some of the moments that took effort and paid off. I hope this helps.
Reading to me
I remember almost nothing with as much clarity as I do my Mom reading to me. Snuggled up next to her in the white linen, with milky, sweet tea under the yellow light where I would listen to her soothing voice and the turning of the pages. I didn’t have many toys when I was little. I wasn’t allowed to play with toy guns (hallelujah!) and so my young mind transformed the simple objects around me into so much more. Sticks in the forest became swords and staffs, the concrete steps at the beach turned into submarines, submerging as the tide rose. And when I was in my room, away from the outside world, in the loft, beneath the sloping ceiling and small skylights, I would spend hours drawing maps and plans and diagrams. And, of course, reading.
Teaching me to stand up for others
If I ever have a child, there’s one thing I want to teach them more than anything else. I want to tell them that however many times they hear the phrase “Life is unfair, so just accept it,” makes it no less false. I will teach them an alternate phrase to counter this parroted slogan. I will tell them what my dad told me when I was small, something that has stuck with me through the years and has affected the way I see the world. “Life is as fair as you make it.” That means that whenever they see injustice, they will respond by defending the discriminated against and learn to aid in creating a more accepting, inclusive society.
Teaching me to cook
I value my ability to cook. It brings me great joy. The scents and textures of working in the kitchen have always appealed to me. Preparing food isn’t a chore, but a form of creativity. When I’m at my girlfriend’s house, we always end up in the kitchen together, me chopping the vegetables while she adjusts the stove and fries up some garlic and onion. There’s something about it that makes conversation easy and winter evenings cosy.
Teaching me cleanliness
I can be a bit of a slob sometimes, but I find it impossible to survive in a state of chaos for more than two days. I love indoor spaces. Earlier this year, I spent three days moving everything out of my room, ruling a grid on my concrete floor, and covering it with a beautiful stencil. In my room, I try and keep my floor clean, my clothes away and my bed made. I also keep myself clean. I never go overboard. I feel that obsession in this regard can detract from the homeliness of a room and the natural smell of unscented skin, but I can’t abide the presence of people who are permanently sweaty and whose houses smell like dog and cigarette smoke. It’s just gross.
My parents have made mistakes, it’s true, but they’re still the most loving, strange and human people I know. There are so many things I’ll never be able to thank them for and there’s so little opportunity to do so. But, for what it’s worth, I love you guys, more than the stars, and the moon and the wide, wide world.
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