Big City/Little Man - Parental Control
Two months into my life in New York, my parents came for their first visit. Typically this would be a welcomed experience - one involving free meals and laughing and, let us not forget, the free meals.
I just couldn’t help the urge to impress them when they came. I didn’t go to crazy extremes, like buying a tuxedo or spending the rest of my cash on that fancy new money-clip. But there was this definite desire to impress, to let them now that I made this city my oyster. I’m not really sure what that means, but I know they do love seafood. So.
When they arrived, I must admit I wore some of my nicer clothes - a shirt without holes and my black converse, knowing that my white shoes tend to show more of the wear and tear of city life. That’s just one of the many lessons I learned from my mother - that black clothes will show less - especially mishaps from previous meals. She apparently did not foresee my losing battle with dry scalp.
My parents did the typical visit to New York. They took me to the Museum of Modern Art, where I was randomly reminded that they too could draw a line on a blank canvas. They took me to dinner, where I was randomly reminded that I too could cook fish - it wasn’t something limited to fancy New York restaurants or professional “anglers.” It seemed that every meal served that one purpose - to prove that I could eat decently on my own accord.
Oddly, the prodding about my health was surprisingly welcomed. I relished being treated like a child once again. In the city your constantly reminded that people don’t give a damn about you. I watched two grown men, who were strangers moments before meeting in traffic, exchange the phrase “hey, fuck you” for at least two minutes. I was driving a truck for work, parked at a stoplight, and an old woman ran a shopping cart into my side. The look on her face wasn’t apologetic. She seemed more aggravated.
In a city of hey, fuck you’s and aggravated old ladies, being treating like a baby becomes a gift.
To find yourself lost in conversation with people you actually know is a breathe of fresh air as well.
In their three day trip from Louisiana, however, the conversations rarely veered from the topics of my brothers and sisters.
You’re brother Kris is closing on a house, my mother slyly brought up, after mentioning how easy it is to buy fresh tilapia from local markets. She eases from talk of Kris’s new life by reminding me that my monthly rent could easily be a down-payment for a first home in Louisiana - where the average home still costs roughly $300, or it’s equivalent in chewing tobacco.
I’m sure he has, Mother, but has Kris ever lived in the greatest city in the world.
I never actually said this. It’s true. But this was all that came to me as a retort.
I could own a house. I could have a wife. Or I could have a house and own a wife - am I right, guys!? Nevertheless, I tried to fight the suspicion that my parents were merely treating my life as a cute hiatus from the real world - one where making babies is my ultimate goal.
In trying to fight that suspicion - no substantial evidence otherwise surfaced. But even if I am bucking that system, you can’t be anything but amazed when parents continue to love their children. Through the broken dishes, accidental curse words, DUIs and attempted murder (of lizards and things of that sort) - they still love you.
And what happens when I realize I’m only stalling the inevitable? Truthfully, the possibility of settling down and accepting parenthood scares me more than anything else - yes, even homegrown terrorists. I’m fairly certain that I’m just not cut out for the parent business by reminding myself of several notes:
1. Several pets have died on my watch. A sad point, but a true one.
2. I didn’t particularly like having pets - specifically feeding them, dealing with their body waste, or showing them affection in any way.
3. In all honesty, I’m sometimes too lazy to change even my own soiled underpants.
I do realize my examples are very “pet-centric.” But that’s what babies really are, pets. The only difference is that when I accidentally don’t feed my pet-baby, or when I forget that my pet-baby isn’t allowed to eat chocolate, or when I attempt to see if it’s true that all pet-babies fall on thier feet no matter what - I go to jail.
This weekend I appreciated my parents more than ever. They fed me, they made me laugh, and they fed me. Three of my four favorite things - I’d easily replace laughter with another meal.
On their last night in the city, as we said goodbyes in front of their overpriced Manhattan hotel, I was reminded of a time my grandfather told me I needed to find a good woman, one who knows how to cook. I must have been eleven or twelve, but I still remember my answer: Why, where’s my mom going?
I suppose there’s still a kid in all adults, just waiting to be coddled by their parents. And I suppose this explains the large numbers of grown men who now pay good money to spanked. Or maybe it doesn’t.
Filed by Zach at November 15th, 2007 under Articles.