I'm Adopted

My "parents". To know them is to seriously question their fashion choices. But I believe in giving credit where credit is due, and who could be more deserving than the people who pay my phone bill? My parents provide me with some of my best material. Not because they're funny but because I'm funny when I'm making fun of them. It takes a village.

For starters, although they are relatively young my parents are completely out of touch with technology. They both eschew social media, preferring to use my brother's accounts to stalk people. When I first got an iPhone my mother asked me how I was going to find time to go to the app store which, in her mind, was a physical building. Bless her heart. After 4 years of experience with smart phones, they've made some paltry improvements. Now they both know that the app store is online but the only app they actually understand is 2048. They are both helplessly addicted to the point of physical withdrawals. On any given evening you can find my parents in the living room with the TV on, both so busy playing 2048 (which they have each beaten several times, mind you) that they simply can't be bothered to answer the phone, text back, or give me money to buy a life size cutout of Perry the Platypus, and they know how strongly I feel about alliteration in the aliases of animated animals.

My endless critiques of the people who forsook their own happiness to purchase the hardcover edition of The Strong-Willed Child and raise me is a recent development. When I was younger I used to think that my parents could do no wrong. Fast forward a dozen years and my mother puts me in charge of watching my youngest brother. While babysitting him I allowed the aforementioned brother (11 years old) to watch Netflix unsupervised and make himself a pepperoni and garlic salt sandwich for dinner after an appetizer of mini kit-kats. Now I'm starting to really question her judgment. But when it comes to childcare, you get what you pay for and I got a whopping zero dollars for that evening so fair is fair.

Not only do my parents consider me capable of "sitting" my siblings, by some egregious error in judgment they frequently allow my siblings to ride in cars with me. For those of you who have never witnessed my driving first hand, clearly you’ve been avoiding the sidewalks and curbs of central North Carolina. So I’ll just tell you, if I lived in Saudi Arabia I would be the poster girl for the no women driving movement. And yet my parents see no problem with me schlepping my brothers around town. Think of all the cars I could run into! During rush hour, driving around Goldston for 45 minutes, that’s like 2 or 3. In their defense, my real problem is hitting stationary objects so in that respect all the other moving cars are clear it's really the mailboxes and woodland creatures rendered immobile by fear who should be worried.

Whenever my dad walks into a room he announces his presence by asking "Where is your mom?" which is actually kind of sweet except after the 2nd time this happens to you when it becomes infuriating. I mean honestly. It's a 2400 square foot house. He can put in some leg work. None of us ever know where my mom is but she's not the invisible woman, it doesn't take much to find her. She's probably hiding from her 3 kids somewhere, that's what I would be doing.

Growing up I always knew that my parents' marriage was secure. I know no matter what happens my parents will never get a divorce. Not because they love each other, they spend time together, or any of that gross stuff. But because it would be literally impossible for them to co-parent. They live in the same house and have been married for almost 30 years and they barely communicate. It sounds like I'm exaggerating but remember we're talking about the people who couldn't put their heads together to remember their only daughter's 17th birthday. I cannot tell you how many times I have had a phone conversation with my father explaining my plans only to receive a text from my mother a few hours later asking what I’m doing. It just doesn’t cross their minds that they could easily ask each other. Or they both just prefer talking to me, can’t blame them. Once I got mono and my dad didn't know until a full month later. That's either because my parents don't communicate or because they just don't pay attention to me. My mother still hasn't noticed that I got a new ear piercing 6 months ago.

In addition to their wardrobe choices, phone addictions and weird obsession with Family Feud, my parents also have a lot of great qualities that I don't get to make fun of nearly enough. In the spirit of love and innocuous humor and the fact that I still want Christmas presents (I gave up on birthday presents the year I turned 17 and no one noticed), I want to share my favorite things about my parents.

The best thing about my dad is that he will buy literally whatever you put on the grocery list. No matter what I ask my mom to pick up, it's a guarantee that roughly half of it has no chance of entering a 15 foot radius of her shopping cart. My dad on the other hand, I could ask for Venetian caviar, a domesticated raccoon, Season 1 of Prison Wives Club and 5 bags of crispy M&Ms and, if left in charge of groceries, he will find a way to bring every item home. And I love him for that. Also his mustache is on point and as a firm believer in eyebrow maintenance I really respect that.

The best thing about my mom is that she somehow manages to shop with me, which is no small feat. She is the typical introvert and I'm the extreme extrovert. This means that she values alone time while I am terrified of it. I know that when we shop she wants to go do her own thing, but the only way I know how to shop is to follow whoever I came with. So my poor mother has let me follow her around stores for two decades and has listened to me talk her out of shoulder pads time and time again.

So while perhaps I will never forgive my parents for refusing to let me drop out of college to serve on John Edwards's jury, I will say that they both have redeeming qualities, like being able to afford to send me to grad school.