There’s a most amusing series of commercials for an insurance company, in which a gentleman runs seminars whose purpose is to prevent young home buyers from turning into their parents. They’re really very funny. In one, they’re guessing at the correct pronunciation for “quinoa”, and in others, he admonishes “You got up early. Nobody cares.” and “The waiter doesn’t need to know your name”. There’s a stage at which we all turn into our parents, sometimes not in our thirties or forties, but for better or for worse, it will happen. Her Ladyship and I are well into that stage.
I constantly find myself saying, “as my grandfather used to say . . . .” before familiar family quotes. My late father-in-law used the statement, “better than a kick in the head” when some result was totally less than satisfactory. My school staff would quote it too, and often when something went not-quite-right.
There seems to be a razor-sharp line between defining family traits and traditions, and outright turning into our parents. My mother would check supermarket specials, then drive from store to store getting the “best deals” from each. She’d come home with the back of a station wagon filled with supplies, and we’d chide her “there was nothing to eat.” I find myself adopting her methods now, reading all the sale flyers, and pre-pandemic, I’d shop at three different stores. One has the best overall prices, another has very good deli meats and a fine butcher shop and flavored coffee that I like, and the third is closest for quick shopping and has very good seafood. Using food delivery has ended all sale prices and personal inspections. Very disappointing, and my mother would be totally shut down.
My father loved to work outdoors. He wasn’t a gardener, though. He liked to go out into the woods to clear dead trees and brush, and his hobby was building ponds and stonework. He had two on his property, both faced with impressive stone linings that he liberated from nearby stone walls or from the fields. He’d come in from working outside all sweaty and filthy, telling us that he was just “a little dusty”. I’ve used that phrase from time to time when coming in from working in the garden. And, while I do nothing on his scale of outdoor construction, living in a condo, I do sneak into the woods and pilfer the odd stone to accent my border gardens. I guess it’s in the DNA.
That’s just the point. Turning into our parents has two components – life experience and memories, or genetics. They are our parents, after all, our models, what we grew up with. An amusing coffee cup I saw in a catalog had the legend, “I opened my mouth and my mother came out.” That happens to all of us, particularly familiar statements of disappointment, reprimand, and authority. “I’ll give you something to cry about.” “Well, if you’re bored, you could always . . . . .” “What in the world were you thinking?” We all remember those – the full name, middle name included would be expressed in a way that caused one to turn pale and seek a hiding place. Most of the time, I can and have been able to restrain the finger wag, but it’s been very close to the surface a number of times. In unfortunate situations, my mother always felt the compulsion to talk, while my father had an effective disappointed stare. I’ve used that stare over the years with students to great benefit. On one occasion, and it was rare because I didn’t use the afternoon detention much, I had a student in and just gave him my stare. He crumpled like an old cookie. The other teacher, who happened to be in the room at the same time remarked later how effective it was. She told me that I “really creeped her out.” My band students knew well that if they were getting the “over the glasses stare”, they were in trouble.
My father was a brilliant man, having graduated from MIT with an engineering degree during the Great Depression. However, going along with that intellect was a distinct lack of patience for those that didn’t grasp much of what was trying to explain. For many years, he was the town meeting moderator in the small town in Southwestern New Hampshire, where I grew up. I’ve related this incident before, but it’s good enough to repeat. On one particular occasion, when he’d explained a motion relating to something inconsequential several different ways, a hand went up in the first row, and the hand’s owner stated, “Mr. Moderator – I don’t understand.” He gazed down upon her with his signature half a smile and responded, “Bernice, I didn’t think you would.” I certainly don’t have his brain power, but I find myself in the same situations from time to time and try as I might, I cannot overcome that instinct to condescend.
The key then is to try to keep up with the new normal. My daughter showed me how to access GIF’s on my phone, and has regretted it ever since. We go back and forth for what seems like ages, knowing that we have, or at least she has better things to do, but still . . . . . She registered us for our vaccines because, well, she knew that if we did it, there would be issues. It’s just faster and easier for her to navigate the technology for us.
Remember when television was easy. You had basic channels, and got up to change them when something we wanted to watch came on. Rabbit ears on the top of the set, or an antenna on the roof. We had one in the attic, so we could go up and spin it around when needed to improve reception. I blame the remote for the downward spiral. Now we have cable, network, streaming. I can’t keep track. Everything is now “plus”, where anything we’d ever want to watch is in one place. Except it isn’t. It’s in dozens, hundreds of different places. Too many options. Brain overload. Fingers pressing buttons randomly. On Demand, except you need to pay an additional $4.99, or $9.99, or $13.99 per month for something we got for free six months ago. Do I want to pay an extra fee to see the Property Brothers redecorating homes AGAIN? Not that they don’t do it well, of course. I strongly suspect that should Hilary and David’s latest clients decide to “list it”, I’ll be paying a chunk of their new mortgage.
And don’t even get me started on user names and passwords. My password notebook, which I keep handy because I can’t remember all the variants. has more cross-outs and revisions than Donald Trump’s tax returns. I save them all on the computer, which is a foolproof system until the computer dies and needs to be replaced. Then, I’m like those astronauts floating in space until I can get them reset. I get the security issue, but really? It seems as though I get regular messages saying something like, “You haven’t changed your password in days. Please update.” If I click on “not now”, it goes all Sheldon Cooper on me. How is it that technology can be so snippy? I tune out completely when somebody on television tells me to “follow us on our app at . . . . . “ That’s just not going to happen.
So, through it all, as Dr. Rick would advise us, do we really need a sign that says, “Live, Laugh, Love”? Turning into our parents is inevitable. Time will take care of that. Let’s not do it too soon, though. Although there is that blank wall space by the back door . . . .
OK, I’m thinking . . . . no.
I'm Thinking...No! 