Day 3 — My parents

Parents are like marmite; you either love them or you hate them and, to me, that purely relies on what stage of your life you’re currently in, to be honest. When you’re a baby, your dependence on your parents is solely based on how often and if they actually feed, clothe and love you. Your relationship doesn’t truly develop – a part from stuff like favourite colours, relationships, I find aren’t truly formed. You love them, of course you do, but you couldn’t find yourself trailing around B&Q on a Sunday afternoon with joy as your parents look at the twelfth or ninety second Black and Decker drill or garden chair set.To be honest, I don’t think either of my parents could, but I’m trying to form a generic example for all to relate to! You then reach your teens and find yourself beginning to truly hate them (although if you think about it, you don’t actually HATE them); you reach the stage where you can’t wait until you’re old enough to move out or murder your family in a blaze of teenage glory. Your lust for adulthood and your parents’ longing for you to stay as sweet as you were when you were six years old and toothless come to loggerheads and a generally miserable, volatile existence ensues until your body parts have fully formed and your hormones have found themselves in a state of relatively balanced bliss. After that, there’s nothing much to do other than to actually sit down and get to know the people who have raised you, because until then, you really don’t know who they are or what they like other than their acceptance of all things (no matter how crap) that you have loved in your childhood.

I’ve always felt as though I got on with my parents reasonably well; we have always argued like cats and dogs and there have been various times when I’ve screamed the hormone fuelled words – “I HATE YOU AND WISH YOU WERE DEAD!” – but I always felt that we were friends, deep down. Very deep down, somewhere that only the most brilliant of psychologists could find…If they were lucky. It hasn’t been until recent years that I realised we weren’t actually friends, not really. I feel I was merely tolerated (and loved, don’t get me wrong) by my long-suffering parents who’s fine line of tolerance was pretty much at breaking point when I decided to emerge from my sullen, depressing, bitchy bout of puberty, and became Doris Day with a temper. I know I can still be a right pain, but now instead of feeling like the whole world and it’s mother was out to get me, now I feel guilt. Which shows, even though I was death warmed up as a teenager, I’ve blossomed (yes, I have!) into a fine young adult. It’s okay, vomit if you wish, I’ll be back to self deprecation in no time.

Parental appreciation is so important, to me. I feel sad when I see people who don’t get on or seem to love their parents as much as I love mine. I could never have asked for anyone better, nor would I have wanted to. I am most proud and definitely glad to be their little (but big) girl. Our relationship is so important to me and I am so glad that my parents fought with me so vehemently and told me straight when I was being a twat, because now I can say that because of them I feel like I’m a better person than I would have been if they continued to let me fall down the big mistake spiral I could have so easily fell into. Even though I’m twenty one, and there will be SO MANY more mistakes I’m going to make and have them mock me for, I don’t mind that, I look forward to cocking up in the future because the safety net they created for you when you were first born, will always, always be there and it will only grow stronger in time.

I absolutely adore my parents and I am so glad to be that mistake that led them to marry at such a young age… Love you mamma and dad! ;)

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