When I was younger, my parents seemed to have their own ways to totally mess with my head. Thus, the crazy, purple-haired, tattooed mess that stands before you (or types at the keyboard) today. It’s not a mid-life crisis, people. It is the total and complete mind-fuckery that my family (my parents, specifically) put me through. I am sure of this. And now, a generation later, I am doing my part to totally and completely mess with my own children’s heads. That is the kind of dedicated mother I am.
I can point to several things that have quite literally manifested themselves into my adult life that I’m pretty sure are directly related to incidents from my youth. For example, Mom and Dad, do you know why I do not have a headboard on my bed? Why I REFUSE to own a headboard? Well, let me enlighten you to the fact that y’all had the noisiest, squeakiest, wall-banging-est headboard in the entire Midwest, and as a result, I was a traumatized pre-teen/teenager precisely once a week at 8:30 p.m., but not during the times when Dallas was airing on t.v., because that would have been unspeakable. So, yeah, no headboard for me. Because I am not doing that to my kids. They may learn choice 4-letter words, but they will not be subjected to that.
Also, I’m pretty sure that fly swatters are for mashing flying insects—not for smacking children on their little behinds. I am just now calculating the amount of bug guts I must have had smacked onto my ass, and I’m thinking it’s probably a miracle I didn’t come down with some form of airborne death virus, considering the number of times I was chased through the house with this device. As a modern parent, I would much rather place my children in a chair or a dusty corner of the house somewhere so that they can think through their transgressions and plot their revenge against me for taking away their favorite electronic gadget.
And what was up with the trusting-me-with-boys-because-they-were-good-boys-from-church thing? OMG, people! They were not the good boys from church. Those were the most repressed boys on the face of the planet, and every time there was a meeting that ran over at the church, guess what we were outside in the parking lot doing? Yeah, it wasn’t memorizing Bible verses. So none of that trust-is-good stuff around here, because I know what those kids are really up to. I was one of those kids. There will be modern forms of mental torture in this area, as well. There will be applications to fill out, contracts to sign, and repercussions. I am locking up the teenaged girls. Now, there’s how to properly mess with their little heads.
I was told I could never go anywhere without clean underwear. Malarkey. Kids, if your house is on fire, go. Just go. You can worry about the underwear later.
I was told tattoos would send me to hell. Mind-fuckery, kids. It’s really talking through Grey’s Anatomy that will send you to hell, and don’t let anyone tell you any differently.
I was told to always respect my elders. (Yeah, until they start to go batshit crazy on your ass. Then you find them a comfortable home, deliver them some cookies every now and then, and get a puppy to keep you company.)
And so it goes. They had their ways. We have ours. Kids, stay strong. And when I go crazy, please, put me in a home that has air-conditioning and re-runs of Grey’s, k?