Perspective.

Something occurred between the moment I gave that final push while delivering our oldest child and the point in time where I currently exist. I won’t call it miraculous. Or spontaneous. Or revolutionary. It occurred rather slowly and somewhat painfully, like the process we endure while getting kids ready for school each morning. Agonizing. Redundant. Necessary.

Nearly eleven years of glacier-like movement and realization.

This something….this transformation…….not only aided me but most dramatically shifted my parent’s status. You see, they are wonderful, caring, giving, attentive, wise individuals.

Now.

However, long before I had kids, they were real jerks. I know that might come as a shock to those of you who know them personally. But take my word for it. They. Were. The. Worst.

I vividly remember all the atrocities of living under their roof. Subjected to their cruel regime. The expectations. The laundry list of rules, guidelines, boundaries. It was barbaric. I was expected to do tasks. Chores. In the words of my own child, they ‘slaved me.’ There were lofty goals that weighed heavily on me and likely impeded me from being a better adult. Discussions about how they knew I was capable and wanted me to rise up to that level and capacity. They held me accountable.

Rude.

I did not have a phone in my bedroom at age 9. Ridiculous, I know, because I HAD EARNED IT. Forget the fact that we had three other land lines in the house. I NEEDED a phone in my room and deserved one simply because I had existed so well for nine whole years.  Their inability to meet this need likely crushed my confidence, preventing me from some grand accomplishment. Besides, EVERYONE else in the entire universe had a phone in their bedroom. Everyone. All my classmates, their friends, their friends’ cousins and their Indonesian pen pals. I knew everyone else had a phone in their bedroom and because of my communication killing parents, they were all busy talking on their bedroom phones and mocking me.

Even from Asia.

I had a bedtime. That’s right. These people, these two OLD people who didn’t have ANY idea what it was like to be 12, lorded over me with a restriction on just how late I could remain awake. They stymied my ability to be up in the wee hours exercising my late night creativity. They prevented whatever inventions and boldness might have been born of me in the late night hours.

Crushers of dreams.

They wanted to know my friends. They never, not once, let me go to a friend’s house without knowing who the parents were, what their rules were and a fair amount about their background. My parents STIFLED me with their protectiveness. Always pestering me with their intrusive questions. Where was I going? Who would be there? Would the parents be home? Suffocating. It’s like they didn’t even want me to have the chance to make new friends without their constraints of knowing exactly who these people were.

Narrow minded.

One summer, after creatively misconstruing (aka lying) about my whereabouts, my mother became aware of my actual location. I was at a party with older kids who were able to exercise their freedoms without jerk parents. They were having a great time and enjoying lots of adult beverages. My mom and dad had the audacity, the nerve, the sheer inconsideration, to drive over to the party, march me to the car and drive me home. Now we will never even have the opportunity to know what fun could have blossomed that evening. They also ripped away my chance to choose wisely and make good decisions in light of all the temptations. It’s like they didn’t even trust me with my infinite 15 year old wisdom, surrounded by even wiser 18 year olds. And a whole lot of Boone’s Farm wine. Whatever.

Opportunity ruiners.

When I was in fifth grade they took away television privileges for six weeks. My grades weren’t what they expected (or some nonsense) and they actually told me I couldn’t watch TV. I think about the sheer pain and neglect of not watching Our House for weeks on end. I missed the opportunity to watch Wilford Brimley in his prime. I’ll never know what happened after the earthquake in their dreamy little California town. Nor will I likely ever know how to fully prepare should an earthquake happen here in my own hometown. This seems neglectful because, as I yelled to my mother in 1988, “WE LIVE ON A FAULT LINE!”

Irresponsible, overbearing, ill-prepared-for-an-earthquake parents.

My father talked endlessly about the importance of saving money and being a good steward of what we’re given. It’s like he didn’t even understand credit cards were an option. I mean, come on, Dad. If you run out of money just sign up for a new piece of plastic. Duh. But NOOOOOO, I had to take my hard earned birthday money and give some to the church. And then put some in savings. Then they wanted me to use what was left to buy my own Guess Jeans. My parents both agreed this denim fad came at an insane price ($60) and said if I wanted a pair, I would need to save up the money to buy them. Ridiculous. That’s basically refusing to clothe your child which is clearly neglect and should be punishable by law. I used to have the number for Child Protective Services memorized………

In another horrible act of oppression, my parents told me I needed to go to After Prom rather than a party at our local Holiday Inn. This was cruel and unusual punishment for me because at 16, I clearly held enough self control to put myself in adult situations and come out unscathed. After Prom? What? Like you want me to go to the bowling alley and eat Cheetos with the rest of the oppressed kids? When I could be partying with a room full of walking teen hormones? What is wrong with you people?

Cruel. And. Unusual.

Somewhere in the early 1980’s I wrote a letter to Ed McMahan. I let him know my parents were wretched awful people who absolutely refused to allow me to buy the magazines necessary for entry into the Publisher’s Clearing House. I wrote about their inhumane treatment and asked him to please consider me a viable contestant despite the misfortune of living in their home. Ed did not save me. I am guessing my controlling parents likely never put a stamp on that passionate plea.

Lucky for my parents, the something that occurred in this last decade allowed me to fully realize they are no longer jerks. It’s amazing how much they’ve grown these last few years.

I kid. I kid.

I wholeheartedly admit it was my own jerkiness that subsided a bit. As the late night feedings of newborns melted into potty training and tooth fairy visits, my heart allowed me to see from their perspective. As kindergarten registration melded into questions about sex from a pre-teen, my eyes are now wide open to exactly what they faced 30 years ago.

I am now the jerk who won’t allow a cell phone even though our child is convinced EVERYONE on earth, including our Indonesian pen pal, has one.

I am now the jerk who imposes bedtime so my own children have a better chance at starting the next day without their head spinning in circles due to sleep deprivation. I am the one who is now “ridiculously unfair” for imposing lights out night after night.

I am now the mom who asks questions about friends. I am the jerk who confuses my kids by not allowing sleepovers except when we know the parents well. Even then they are somewhat limited. These set of parameters are confusing to one particular child who is built with the same mental framework as his mother and cannot for one second understand why I would need this information. He finds himself to be completely in control of his destiny. When asking me for a sleepover or play date, minor details like whether or not his friends’ parents run a drug ring out of their home is simply semantics to him. While we’re fortunate this has never been the case, the mere fact that we’d ask basic questions about any friend’s family is mortifying to said child. He would argue the potential drug ring would provide both an opportunity to understand chemistry and sales techniques in one fell swoop.

So I remain the jerk.

I am a jerk for educating my kids to save and also share their money. I’m clueless and out of touch (my interpretation of what my offspring’s words would be) for expecting them to have their own spending money for super important life necessities like Fortnite V-Bucks, vats of slime, Playstation games or a tenth pair of headphones.

I am now the adult responsible for ensuring my own children don’t know too much too early. For protecting them from others. And themselves. For setting up boundaries so they show respect for their peers, future spouses and their own bodies. God help us all. Since it is socially unacceptable to stone people for sexual indiscretion these days, perhaps I’ll just tell my kids they can’t date until 30.

Or 50.

Regardless, I’ll be the jerk.

I’m resigned to the fact that my kids will find me to be out of touch, antiquated, uncool, unreasonable, unfair, hateful, malicious and borderline cruel. So I will be the jerk for the next three decades until my kids have their own kids who loudly proclaim they are, in fact, real jerks.

*No children were harmed in the making of this photo. This was an unprompted, unposed reaction because I wouldn’t allow a candy bar before dinner. I. Am. A. Jerk.*

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