Why Not Open for God?

I don’t know if there is a band that reaches the depths of my husband’s heart, soul and 1970s era lovin’ as well as Hall and Oates. The other night, to celebrate our five-year anniversary (take that naysayers!) we showed up at their concert. My husband, raring to go with his, “I Can Go for That, Darryl, I love you” signs, and me with my bra ready to be thrown on stage and immediately become, P. O. J. (Property of John) we had our minds right.

We got to the concert a little late, late enough to miss the opening act because, as my husband put it, there’s no one qualified to open for Hall and Oates so, “Why not just try to open for God?”

I reflected on that question, as I realized I would never be as good a parent as my parents were/ are, and, here’s why I know that:

I am currently living back home with my parents.

I am here for several reasons, some respectable, and most, maybe not so much. For all those college students who return home, bitching and moaning about being under their parents’ roof again, I would like to tell them now and forever more to go screw themselves. When you are 21 or 22 years old and you find yourself back home, yes, there are some shitty rules you find yourself once again obeying (chores, calling when you’ll be out late, sneaking back in at odd hours, etc.), but, you don’t face the ultimate humiliation of telling your other 30+ year old friends where you’re headed to at the end of the evening, “Oh yeah, have to check in on mom and dad… they’re getting up there…” No, they’re not getting up there. They are perfectly fine. I know because I live with them.

In my current situation, I am the opening act for my parents. I am the person who people get up, walk around, use the restroom, get some food, check their phones, and eat dinner prior to the real act- my parents, coming out, and shutting this shit down. It is both debilitating and exhilarating.

A couple of things I have realized since moving back in:

1.    Having sex in your high school bedroom when you’re married is not as cool as having sex in your high school bedroom when actually in high school. This is unfortunate. You realize the bed is still small, the decorations still a bit young, and your parents just down the hall coupled with the fear of getting caught doesn’t contribute as much to the overall “bad boy” “bad girl” image you had of yourself that never actually rang true. Still fun? Sure, absolutely it is. Just…different.

2.    They’re the best. My parents had four of us- four. I have my son and I am headed for a nervous breakdown daily. They work selflessly not selfishly and they do it with humor and grace. Growing up, I felt like an only child- in the best ways. I was never want for attention. And, I was loved regardless of what colossal fuck up I had created. We had less “stuff” but we were never without. I am the last generation that grew up without cell phones, still played outside regularly and thought Atari and Nintendo were some of the greatest innovations to mankind. We had a shared family computer and a t.v. we all got to watch together. We had family dinners nightly where we rehashed our day, and still had that Wonder Years Kevin Arnold feeling of growing up in a safe neighborhood with neighbors we knew and parents who were involved.

3.    They are the Hall to my Oates. They are Darryl. They’re the brain child, they’re the show, they are who the people are paying to see. I’m the pre-show, the warm up act, the “go get a burger and beer and I’ll save our seats” set. And, that’s okay, because they’re doing one hell of a job, and my son is the better for it.

I feel 11 years old around my parents still. I realize this never goes away, and it’s a pipedream to think it might. But, my son’s happy. He’s fed, clothed, well rounded (can’t dance for crap, like me) and loves his Nonni and Papa. Is it awkward telling my friends I live here? Yes. But, I am eternally grateful that at the end of the day, in spite of all my mother’s passive aggressive comments to my son that are really directed at me, “Brrrrrrrr! Isn’t it cold, sweetheart? Goodness me, I wish someone would go get you a sweater before your icicle arms fall off. Hmmmm now who might be able to do that?” and my father’s pearls of wisdom to my son, “You better stop crying before I really give you something to cry about” you really can go home again, and sometimes, it’s not that bad.