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For better or worse, I was blessed (or cursed?) with
parents who are smarter, nicer, more active, more
traveled, more magnanimous than I could ever hope to be.
WWDD?
This point was illustrated when a prominent local
businessman dedicated a post on his popular blog to my
father. The title was a play on the acronym “WWJD," but
with my father’s name substituted for Jesus.
That’s right.
In my small Midwestern town, my father is considered a
possible stand-in for Jesus. No pressure.
My parents met
many years ago while on separate backpacking trips
through Greece. After briefly considering setting up
residence on the coast of the Mediterranean, they
continued through Europe for a few months before
returning to the United States to marry. They lived in
California and Morocco (among other locations) before
ultimately settling down in a small suburb of Indiana to
raise my sister and me.
Do I ever
resent my parents for not choosing the isles of Greece
to make our family home? Yes.
Have I ever
found any other reason to resent them? No.
A cause
without a rebel
Even through my most angst-filled of teen years, I could
never completely rebel against my parents—even to the
most hormone-rattled brain they were clearly excellent
role models. They have both been active and commendable
citizens for many years. My father is the perennial
front man for some philanthropy event, political cause,
or town gathering. He is always the center of the crowd,
shaking hands, and ordering drinks to go around.
My mother is a
leader behind the scenes. She is always the go-to person
for information. At the college I attended
for both my undergraduate and graduate degrees—and where
she and I both now work—I will forever be known as
“Kathy’s daughter.” My own title and name may never be
as important.
As perfect and
awe-inspiring as my own parents may be, there was never
any pressure growing up on my sister and me to turn out
the same way. When we were children, my parents always
kept an eye out in case of catastrophe, but we were more
or less allowed to make our own mistakes. After junior
high, both my sister and I had the horrifying moment
when we looked back at snapshots and wailed at our
mother for letting us go out of the house in such awful
outfits, when any normal mother would have sent us back
to our closets for something with a bit more fabric and
common sense.
Waving
goodbye
Through my teen years, my parents were there no matter
what ridiculous mistakes I made. They guided me through
the college application process and a massive career
shift. They waved as I left home for a summer in China
and semester in Washington, D.C., among other
adventures.
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Laura in
Washington D.C. |
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Despite
repeated attempts to fly the coop (each time with my
parents’ encouragement) I somehow keep returning to the
town where I grew up and where my parents still reside.
Although I’ve moved out of their actual home (to an
apartment a whole eight blocks away), we are very much
still a family unit. The difference is that the family
unit previously composed of adults and children is now
three independent adults who choose to spend time
together.
In addition to
necessary visits home to take advantage of the free
laundry and open pantry policies, my parents and I are
learning to make time for each other as adults. We can
no longer depend on time spent in
the family station wagon to enjoy each other’s company.
Instead we have to communicate, coordinate, and organize
to find time to
spend together. I regularly meet my father for drinks
after an evening of volunteering, and my mother and I
often get together for lunch.
The older I
get, the more I realize that I can still fill the
daughter role as an adult. I can be my own person with
my own independent identity and life path while
following their example—even if I don’t follow exactly
in their footsteps.
Laura M.
Groth, age 23, works is a graduate admissions counselor
for the graduate school at Valparaiso University in
Indiana.
Read more articles about changing relationships with
our parents. Check out
"The
changing face of my mother"
by Priscilla Austin and
"Letting go of my Mother's hand" by Kwame Pitts.
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