In theory, moving home with the folks for the month prior to our departure to Costa Rica seemed like a good proposition.
In practise, the experiment blew up in my face on the first night. Despite being near 40 and a mother of two, I found myself suddenly thrust back in time, like a 14-year-old bringing home a report card.
Eager to get some family feedback on the blog, I pulled up the address for my dad for a perusal. He finished reading then settled back in front of the TV to continue watching one of those mind-numbing all-financial-news-all-the-time shows and complained about the sinking price of oil stocks in the face of ever-climbing prices for the commodity.
Finally, I asked what he thought. The reply was less than complimentary.
“It’s not very professional,” he flatly replied.
Well, the fight was on. Like I said, 14 again. While the argument now isn’t about what I’m wearing on my way out the door it’s still about how I look.
His main complaint was the language. He was upset I called myself a pig — and him gun happy, worried that animal rights activists might start showing up on his doorstep because of my concern that he might “take my cat for a walk on the back 40 at the first sight of a soggy hairball.”
Suddenly I began to second-guess myself, my mind racing about shattering my social mask. Will people really think I’m a pig? Is my blog too crass? Too raw?
Why is it that even after becoming a grown up with kids our own we can be reduced to a child begging for approval when it comes to dealing with our own parents?
I am a journalist but, for God’s sake, I’m not writing about the war in Afghanistan here.
But for the record: I’m not really a pig. I just felt like one at that moment, cleaning out a house that has for too long been neglected. And my dad isn’t really going to take the cat for a walk (I hope), and isn’t gun happy (anymore.)
And I really am going to Costa Rica, just not soon enough.