Thursday, November 22, 2007


Greetings, dearest readers. I come to you, somewhat intoxicated, from a bed in the room in which I grew up. A much transformed room, to be certain, but geographically the same.

I should qualify, I suppose. I lived in the same house from birth until my first apartment. My bedroom was always a fairly accurate depiction of myself--painted in colours I chose and an absolute disaster to the untrained eye, yet I could find anything amongst the debris (much like Stacy's younger brother in "The Babysitter's Club," a point on which I always took much pride).

As my adolescence progressed, the walls slowly became covered in graffiti to go along with the posters, photographs, and other random snippets of my life (a tapestry made at girl scout camp, a shredded NKOTB tape, random gifts from High School Boyfriend). I was the envy of many, because my parents allowed such self-expression. Graffiti on the walls. Black satin sheets. Multiple self-inflicted holes in my ears and hair that progressed through nearly every colour of the rainbow.

I would not be the person I am today if it were not for my parents, and the incredible open and loving way in which they raised me. I have often described them as perfect, and incited much jealousy among my peers as I describe a typical weekend at home (hence the somewhat intoxicated state in which I currently find myself).

Yet tonight I had a realization--one which I feel I've had several times before, but never dared to articulate.

My parents are not perfect.

Wonderful? Yes. Excellent? Absolutely. Two of my dearest friends? You betcha.

But perfect? Difficult though it is to admit... not so much.

The older I grow the more I notice things. Small idiosyncrasies, a tendency to be stuck in a certain point of view, that makes me want to cry out "No! Don't you see? It can so easily go another way..." But I stay silent. Why? Because open and wonderful as our relationship may be, they are still the parents, and I still the child.

And frustrating though it may be at times, I believe therein lies the strength of our relationship.

I would be hard-pressed to explain how it came about, and I can only hope to emulate the circumstances should I ever have children. Something about the dynamic of openness and respect. I know there are lines I should not cross, yet I cannot resent them, because so many other conventional lines have been left in the dust.

The fact that I can see the faults in my parents yet still love them unconditionally speaks volumes about our relationship. It may not be perfect, but it is real. And I would never ask for anything different.


Samantha said...

This is a really insightful and poignant post. Happy Thanksgiving. I did your meme finally, thank you for the tag!

Princess Pointful said...

Great post. Your relationship with your parents sounds very similar to mine (they, too, let me do the grafitti thing, which now I realize was the worst idea. Ever.)
It has been hard for me to start seeing some of the flaws in my parents or in their relationship, too.

(and I did your meme, too!)

OC said...

Great post. I think that's when we realize that we are growing up - when we can recognize that our parents (or whoever raised us) isn't perfect, but they did the best job they could. Sometimes that job is excellent, sometimes not as much... but they are just people too. Real people who may have had some of the same worries, fears, dilemmas and issues that we now have.
Happy turkey day!

Stephanie said...

So strange sleeping in the same room where you grew up. After I moved out, my room turned into an exercise room but has recently been converted back to a bedroom where I slept this weekend. Was so strange to think about all that happened there over the years.