A good friend of mine recently dove into a written rant after his teenage daughter got herself in deep do-do. Even though she is his fifth and youngest child in the throes of trouble-hood, he couldn’t help but recall, yet again, the curse with which he was afflicted, the one set in motion by his parents oh so long ago when he himself was a serial hooligan.
He called his rant “The Parents’ Curse Works Or Why Are My Children Such Dumb Asses?” I’ve borrowed the former part of that title for my own rant without concern for any objections he might have, and not because I was around for some of his youthful hooliganisms and could easily drop a few dimes to his kids. I borrowed from his title because I couldn’t think of one myself. I’m not lazy; I’m tired – and it’s because of the curse.
I’ve hoped my parents would someday say something supportive when I found myself in a parenting whirlwind, but their comments have been confined to things like “What did you expect? They’re your kids!" I do still have hope - for empathy or at least sympathy, but so far no. Their response is a painful reminder of the day they'd had enough of my antics and cried out in frustration, "Someday you're gonna have kids just like you!"
Thus, I was duly cursed.
My parents almost revel in my discomfort and I’m pretty sure I’ve heard them giggle with glee in the distance now and then. I’ve often thought them so insensitive and calloused about it, but this must be because they know what I still do not know for sure - that me and my kids will make it through, come what may.
They also know what I’ve only recently discovered in the past couple of years: this job of parenting does not stop, ever. There are milestones to be sure, most notably the day the children move out on their own, but the idea that one worries any less for being free of their living expenses is hogwash.