In the past week, I've been a horrible daughter.
If I were my parents, I would just stop answering the phone.
It all started with the Spring Break fiasco -- Destin, Bermuda, Nassau. I believe the destination and/or price has changed maybe five times, each alteration necessitating an explanatory call to concede that yes, procrastination only leads to chaos and that yes, Arizona is actually prime resort weather if I wanted to go home.
Then came my car -- you know life is such that two months after your four-year warranty expires, a routine oil change suddenly leads to extremely expensive repairs for obscure but apparently vital things like "lower ball joints" and "window regulators".
"Did you hit something?" the service guy asked.
"I mean, not that I know of..." I replied.
"A deer, maybe? A large snow bank?"
"I think I might remember that."
But my parents handled it all surprisingly well. So well, in fact, that I feel even guiltier than if they had absolutely torn me to pieces.
"Megan, you know you are my most expensive daughter," was all my father wryly said.
(As opposed to my unselfish and frugal sister in her first year of medical school at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota -- she cross-country skis to class in below-zero temperatures and delivered a placenta today after witnessing live childbirth. I, however, rescued my sick car from the dealership, grabbed a Starbucks and pursued my quest for entry to the Comm School.)
At this incredibly self-absorbed point in my life, I cannot imagine being all right with my child's extravagant Spring Break trips and absurdly suspicious car repairs. I've always told myself that I will be a lenient, understanding parent -- with a relationship built on trust and mutual respect, things like curfews and restrictions will become unnecessary.
Right.
As I get older and begin to continually recognize the money, worry and stress I have caused my mother and father, "lockdown" is looking like a pretty effective parenting technique.
In high school, my parents certainly could have exercised this level of control -- if they wanted to. At times, of course, I felt like I was in prison coming home at midnight, but now that I know what actually goes on "during the most dangerous hours of 12-2 when bars close," I can see their much-repeated point. And let's face it, 16 or 17 years old does seem ridiculously young from this perspective.
I've come to the conclusion that our culture almost fosters rebellion in high school -- the parent plays the role of oppressor, the child the role of the repressed spirit waiting anxiously for freedom. (Ferris Bueller is my personal hero, by the way.) How cool would I have been if I had not wanted to fight with my parents about my curfew?It would have been weekends centered on TBS's "Dinner and a Movie". Hell no.
But what happened after graduation?
Now we're all (technically) "adults." College changes our relationship with our parents -- what authority they did choose to exert is now essentially extinguished by our nation's glorious system of higher education. At least in my case, a 2,500-mile, 7-hour flight buffer zone is the active element in this process of separation.
Frankly, my parents have no idea what is going on.
(As a sidenote: my mother reads this column, and in the name of entertainment for Cav Daily readers, I will be paying for these comments tomorrow.)
I am such a control freak -- in my parents' position, I would be terrified of this situation. (The things my brother potentially could be doing with his girlfriend is already enough to put me on Paxil.)
And just imagine if your parents could witness your Thursday night. It would be like that terribly evil show on MTV where parents and siblings disguise themselves and follow the child (usually a girl who gets wasted and removes clothing "Girls Gone Wild"-style) to some crazy destination. Charlottesville is not Miami or Lake Havasu, but I must assert that the Corner would not be all that bad for ratings.
I suppose my point is that I know I have been spoiled beyond belief -- both monetarily and otherwise. I am astounded by how good my parents have been and continue to be to me -- how can they love me so unconditionally? And even when they have ultimately lost control, why do they still support me so willingly?
My mother has always said that someday everything will cease to be about me. Someday, I will love my child so much that paying for exorbitant trips and car repairs will seem unimportant.
This day I have to see.
For now, I am trying to assuage my own personal guilt regarding my "take, take, take" relationship with my parents by way of the fact that they do not have straight exams and papers from now until Foxfield.
The "good student" argument is always a strong defense.
It even works for car insurance.
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