It’s funny how we go through so many different seasons with our parents. When we’re children we love being with them, we think everything they do is awesome and right, and we want to be just like them when we get older. And then we go through this stupid stage where we despise them and think they have nothing in common with us; that they can’t possibly know what it’s like to be “our age”. We talk to them like they are the stupidest person we’ve ever met, and we want to make the very choices they don’t want us to. Fortunately, there comes a point in our life when we get over ourselves (at least there should be) and we realize that our parents aren’t as rediculous as we made them out to be. We start to accept that maybe they do have more life experience than we do; perhaps they do remember what life was like at our age; and it’s very likely that they do give us advice for our good, not for the pleasure and entertainment of seeing us miserable. Soon, something wonderful and unexpected happens: we go back to enjoying and coveting the company of our parents. We joke around with them, we make them laugh, and maybe we disagree with them on things but we don’t argue for the sake of arguing anymore…we’ve become friends.
It’s sad because I was just finding my joy in that friendship stage…and then he died. I didn’t even see it coming.
*That’s a picture of my dad by the way: the big guy on the left*