my parents

are silly and smart, almost sickeningly happy, quirky, crazy, active and adventurous, sometimes obsessive, often immature, always supportive, and completely in love (with the dog, with each other). I absolutely adore them.

In the six years since my high school graduation and subsequent departure for out-of-state college, my parents have begun granting me less-restricted access to the non-parent, real-person parts of their lives—an invitation I appreciate immensely. As a result, we’ve developed a generally friends-first type of relationship, which has been eye-opening, entertaining, and (at times) educational.

I knew things were changing when I called Mom from college (at the urging of my sister) in a state of obvious intoxication, nervous about exposing her to my undeniable and underage inebriation, only to discover that she was, indeed, drunker than me. This conversation uncovered the error of my previous perceptions of Mom, and set the stage for further parental revelations. Soon enough, I was hearing stories about drunken Mexican escapades, inappropriate and police-attracting (spotlight included) evenings on the high school pitcher’s mound, and alcoholic afternoons at less-than-glamorous places of employment. And I was making martinis with Mom on Christmas, unable to compete with her remarkable rate of cocktail consumption.

I’m also coming clean in a non-daughter way, to show I’m not always so smart or sophisticated. And my parents are open to hearing the truth—that sometimes I’m unwise, or I’m worse. I’ll recall a particularly unpleasant alcohol-inclusive outing, and they'll offer hangover-reducing remedies with sympathy instead of scolding. I’ll boast of my naked sprint across the sky-bridge over State Street, and they'll chuckle instead of chiding me. Or, I’ll tell them I spent the night with a non-committed man-friend, and they won’t assume it’s because I’m easy or evil.*

I like that my parents laugh at my expense and my antics, and love me in spite of them. I like that I love them like that in return. And I like that we’ve stopped masquerading as Mollys (Mormons, that is) when it’s clear we’re a family of nothing but Naughties. (Relatively speaking, of course.)


*My parents have become almost too open-minded for their own good (or for mine). They secretly believe that my battle with the “stomach flu” late last week was really a case of excessive and unfriendly alcohol ingestion, which it wasn’t. They also doubt my ability to spend several straight hours with my (now-ex-non)boyfriend without finding a way to get touchy or feely, which I didn’t. They’re understanding to the point of imagining. Fortunately, it’s funny, and I only love them more for it.