I suppose college is around that time in every young person's life when you look back on your childhood with serene nostalgia—and grateful bafflement. Considering the countless times I knocked my head into furniture, fought my brothers in sibling rivalries, and risked blowing off an appendage or two with smuggled firecrackers, it’s a wonder how I ever made it to high school, let alone college.
But then, I already know the answer: it was my parents.
Mom and Dad, you are the ones who miraculously kept me, my brothers, and my sister safe despite all our attempts to the contrary. Growing up, we were drawn to the immature, the embarrassing, and occasionally to the dangerous. I still don’t know how I got it into my head that racing down a street on two scooters was a good idea. Or how we convinced you to let us keep a trampoline in the living room (you came to your senses after the hole in the wall). Pillow fights seemed so harmless in theory until we bunched the stuffing into thick balls and swung for the head. Our young judgment got us into trouble with teachers, principals, other parents, and sometimes strangers.
And stupid as these things were, they were also the highlights of my adolescence. With every activity I learned the limits of myself and the lessons vital in gaining a realistic view of the world. I learned the universe did not revolve around me. I learned that actions had consequences and rested on my own shoulders. I learned (eventually) that a body could not sustain itself on endless pizza and Coke, that green vegetables were not just some torture method parents got a kick out of on a mundane Tuesday night. These lessons helped shape me into who I am today, and I learned them with enough freedom to grow up in adventure without feeling unloved or unaccounted for.
It takes guts, Mom and Dad. It takes heart, perseverance, and immense character to stick with us in unshakable support after all this time. It’s not just because you’re stuck with us, either, or that we’re some kind of legal liability, because that’s not the reason. It’s because you’re good parents. You’re kind people. You didn’t have to do any of the wonderful things you did, like drive us home from friends’ houses late at night or come see our plays or send us to expensive private schools to ensure we had every opportunity imaginable. You did all of this and infinitely more, often without much beyond a thank you.
Children are not always the best sources of appreciation. I was less aware of your sacrifices and your encouragement than I like to admit, but I’m trying to make up for it with everything I do as an adult. With every story I write, I think, “Mom and Dad are going to love reading this.” With every “A” I receive I feel satisfaction in knowing I’m not putting your efforts to waste. One day, I hope to be half as good a parent as you have been to me, and I hope I’ve already proven that I’m up for the challenge. The bar’s been set as high as it can go.
