​Inherited

I have spent years ping-ponging this topic in my brain, with my sister, with my husband, with my Millennial friends; for the most part, the way our Boomer parents raised us is a story that is sometimes poignant, sometimes funny and sometimes very fucked up.

After decades of repression, it seems to me I can neatly divide their choices into a few piles – normal, totally awful and bizarre. When some of my past settles over me like a fog, I’m forced to sit with several uncomfortable truths:

My parents truly did everything they could and thought they were doing it right.

My parents had to juggle the personalities of three different versions of themselves. (Three children to two parents is a terrifying ratio.)

My parents made choices that, to me, are shitty, and to them, were fine.

Still, the list of truths I’ve had to uncover and narratives I’ve had to rewrite never ceases to amaze me.

Pain management is a classic one. An absurdly clumsy child, I once completely wiped out after stepping off an amusement park ride, opening up about 20 razor-thin, superficial scrapes from my knee to my shin. My parents administered water as first aid because they didn’t want to miss the fireworks. I could not be carried back to the car, because I was already closing in on the weight of an adult Labrador before age 10. Unsurprisingly, I’ve resisted going to urgent care when I’m hurt, to the point where I almost ignored a hairline fracture, because I’m still embarrassed every time I trip and fall.

Also: Did you guys know that your wisdom teeth may come in and they need to be removed? Me neither. At least, this was new to me when my mouth erupted in pain in the final weeks of college. I’m 40 and have one useless one left. My current dentist is deeply determined to remove it, thus ending my tenure as the world’s oldest fully formed adult with extra teeth. This information about teeth coming in was shared to me by no one. I guess we’re a don’t ask, don’t tell family on the topic of orthodontia.

My parents had the opportunity to recently re-share stories about Little Me with some newer friends. One narrative that hasn’t changed: How I was too smart for my own good. I have to wonder what that even means to my parents now, or what it meant then. I remember being an early reader and doing well in school. I yearn for it sometimes, as I struggle without the structure of an academic setting now. I still have a deep-seated determination in me. And I still want my parents to be proud of me. Sometimes that’s wonderful. Sometimes I have to catch myself and remind myself that the world will keep turning if things aren’t executed perfectly for them. My biggest achievements to date won’t fix whatever it is that I might still be looking for from them.

Another narrative I’ve endured was how neurotic I was – a quality I still despise about myself. This is honestly just one of those rock-and-a-hard place things. My parents loathed the idea of sending me through the public school system, but Catholic school made me feel fear and guilt 90% of the day for 8 years straight. It took most of college, an adult life and a lot of epic screw ups in my late 20s to undo the damage. To this day, though, I’m still anxious when someone bends a rule, and I often glare at people who blatantly disregard them. Jesus knows what you’ve done.

I think spun a different way or seen in a different light, this could be an unhappy childhood. A lot of it was unfair. Childhood patterns have become adult imprints, and I’ve had to unlearn a boatload of lessons that are far more complex than “how to ask for your teeth to be removed.” Issues with anger, people-pleasing and an eating disorder ruled my life for a long time. I try not to blame my parents for it, but it’s not always that simple. I thumb back through the memories and think, Shouldn’t someone have done something about this?

While my parents don’t apologize for who they were, they don’t seem to hold anything against me, either. I think their blanket acceptance (often characterized as “it is what it is”) makes it easier for me to move on, too. I know that not everyone in my circle is as lucky. I know a lot of us are working though childhoods that were more broken, less happy and scores more unfair than I could ever dream mine to be.

As the years have rolled forward, I’ve tried to look at my parents through a different lens. I no longer see people who had all the answers, only two imperfect people now in the sunset of their lives. I imagine the days with three small kids were long, exhausting, complicated and sometimes unbearable yet also full of joy and love and ordinary moments that felt easy at the time.

The older I get, the more I understand that all of it can be true at once.