My Parents…And Other Curses They Put On Me
My mom at one of my parent teacher conferences, most likely.
You’ve already read about the genes curse in our family. But there is another, much more heinous curse that children inherit. Your parents store up all those stupid little whiny comments and habits they used on you, and somehow download them into your brain matter. No matter how you try or swear you’ll never use them, they come popping out at the most inopportune moments, like a fart in church. My mom’s favorite one was, “You just wait till you have kids…you’ll find out.” Find out what? She never did tell me the answer to that one. And at what point in time do you suddenly lose the ability to get a toy out of its packaging? When exactly did that happen? Somewhere, we lose the agility we once had to beat the pants off our kids at the video games, and they can restore the hard drive on the computer quicker than Steve Jobs. I swore to God I would never cut my own kid’s hair, yet here I am, with a scissors and a comb. I have to say it hasn’t been a complete disaster so far. Only once did my son move in mid-clip and end up with sideburns like Mr. Spock. Okay, and is this my mom’s Canadian showing, or did anyone else’s family have a name for that stupid little metal thingey on an older style car door that you pulled up or pushed down to lock and unlock the door? Did anyone else on God’s green earth call that thing a “snick”? I still tease my mom about that- of course now, her car has the remote transponder, and I tell her to put the snick down when she locks it-it’s still good for an old fashioned eye-roll. My dad’s favorite line was “I’ll give you something to cry about”. Yes, my father did the “don’t you make me stop this car”, thing, but only once. That was because my sister was pushing his buttons, he threatened, she didn’t take it seriously, and he really did pull over. She never admitted to it, but we’re all pretty sure she crapped herself right then and there. Other oldies but goodies included “Don’t make me come up there”, and “You just wait until your father gets home.” Funny, but my mom never really realized that the last one almost never got the desired effect. Think about it- your dad comes home from a crappy day at work, and your mom says, “guess what your daughter did, blah, blah, blah…” the second he comes in the door. Unless it was a major felony in our house, like dinging up the white woodwork, dad usually came upstairs to your room, rolled his eyes and said, “Did you do XYZ?” You blubber out a yes, and he would say, “just don’t do it again,” and he would go back downstairs, sit in his chair and turn on the news, which was all he ever wanted to do in the first place. We grew up in a small row home, and my father was an expert at draft detection. There was a door at the bottom of the stairs, and that door had to be closed at all times. My father could feel a draft like nobody’s business, probably even from two towns over. He’d be on his way home, like 2 miles away, and feel a cold draft and probably say to himself, ” I bet them damn kids left that door hanging open again.” He would stop what he was doing and look around like he just smelled a bad smell. ”Where the hell is that cold air coming from?” Then one of us would get heck for leaving the door to the upstairs open a fraction of an inch. And, did you know in my house, a fraction of an inch counts as a door hanging wide open? I think my father’s idea of hell is to be duct taped in his lazy boy, and a nice cold draft blowing in the door and he can’t get up to shut it. One of my mom’s common ones was “What happens when you bug me?” That one is totally my sister’s fault. She had a bad habit of just following my mom around, saying, “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom…” Finally my mom would scream “WHAT?!”, and my sister could then be sure she had mom’s full attention. One of my personal favorites that my mom used on my sister was “You’ll live.” My sister was a drama queen extraordinaire. She’d come running in the house with a cut on her knee and beg to be rushed to the ER. My sister got so used to mom’s response that she’d have her little spaz, look at my mom’s Marge Simpson-esque grimace, and say, “I know, I’ll live,” and just walk away. I am proud of myself for a couple of things though. Firstly, I had a son, so my mom was unable to pass that hideously furry winter hat with the giant puffballs at the ends of the hat ties, and the matching furry muff that looked like a strangled piece of possum road kill on a string. My sister had the only girl, so it’s happily all hers. I already have one, very well hidden away picture of me wearing that thing, sitting on the lap of a completely deranged looking department store Santa. Even he looked like he felt sorry for me in that hat and muff and the stupid tights that the crotch never fit right. The other one is that I can honestly say, so far, I have NEVER spit in or licked a tissue and went to wipe anything on my son’s face. I hated that with a passion, and when I told my mom it was gross, she’d always say, “Mom spit has no germs.” Uh, that’s not the point mom. IT’S SPIT. I have threatened my mom that I’m going to have “THIS is what happens when you bug me.” put on her tombstone. Either that, or “don’t make me come up there.” And, most likely, we’ll find a small rock and prop my dad’s casket lid open with it, so he can lay there for all eternity wondering which one of his kids left that damn door hanging open again. Then with my luck, I’ll be hearing his voice from the grave, saying, “Where the hell is that cold air coming from?” Actually, I am just a bit jealous of my sister. She got her revenge on them in a way. She has two kids, one is 15 and one is 12. The 12 year old is the poor sap who got the furry hat. My mom was sitting in my sister’s living room, griping about how her back was bothering her, and the pills they were giving her weren’t helping. Lauren, the 12 year old, looks up at my mom and says, “You’ll live.” At that moment, I think my sister had both the urge to hug the stuffing out of her daughter and pee herself laughing at the same time.
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