It would be difficult to find a more universally complex relationship than one has with the parental units. Moreover, the complexity does not really change because of the number of parents, or even the biological connection. Naturally, we have a different editorial take on that issue.
World Peace with Parents
Years from now, when the annals of history include our timeline of idiotic events, I think it’s safe to say they’ll reference our stupid asshole of a president’s lust for banning. Boy, does he love to ban. He’s not any good at it, he just loves to try and do it.
So, I’m going to throw my two cents into the political ring here: You know what the commander in chief should do away with? Father’s Day. And Mother’s Day. And Parents’ Day, which I didn’t even know existed until I Googled “holidays celebrating parents.” All three of these festive events should be erased from our celebratory calendars. And while we’re at it, let’s also ditch all the mugs and T-shirts that say “World’s Greatest [fill in your favorite paternal figure here].”
“Parents just don’t understand” DJ Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince
I love my folks. I mean, I really, really love them. I love them to a point that I’m pretty sure I’d kill for them. The circumstance would have to be right, of course. I mean, I wouldn’t go on some Devil’s Rejects-style murder spree just because one of them politely asked me to do so. But if the situation were dire enough—let’s say, somehow I knew that if I didn’t kill a guy he would then in turn kill one or both of them, and I also knew I wouldn’t, like, get the gas chamber for doing it—then sure, I think I’d kill for them. Probably. I can accept brutal violence under certain terms. What I can’t swallow is the perpetuation of a ridiculous concept.
There is no world’s greatest dad or mom because there are no superhumans. Given the average earthlings we’re dealing with here, and given the fact that we’re measuring them on how much they provide their children, the term “world’s greatest” is not in any way qualifiable. It’s like arguing whether cats are better than dogs (they’re not, by the way). And speaking of cats and dogs, those animals have the human parents of this world beat by a long shot. In order to stave off predators, cats and dogs actually eat the placenta after their young are born. Now that’s providing. It’s also exceptionally nasty. So don’t be so quick to pat yourself on the back because you cut the crust off a sandwich or took your kids to a Dodgers game.
Let’s also discuss the prerequisites…er, prerequisite…to become a parent. There’s only one: sex. (I realize that, like me, some of you are adopted, but if you want to get technical, that’s really just a purchase.) Back to sex: the simple, brainless, and most-likely-less-than-nine-minute activity that led to your conception. Nothing magic or “great” there. Even if your folks made the sweetest, most tender, tantric Kenny G-type love to create you, it wasn’t some superhuman achievement. This stuff is pretty basic. It’s reproduction. Always remember: If an eleven-year-old can do it, it’s probably not that complicated.
(NOTE: If you didn’t get that last reference, YouTube: “Insane Clown Posse Miracles video.”)
So, all this miracle bullshit created and continually feeds an illusion that our parents are somehow miraculously “greater” than they are. They’re not. “Parents just don’t understand.” Of course they don’t! For the same reason you and I don’t understand anything half the time!
Look, I can’t speak for you, but I’m a fucking moron for at least 74 cumulative hours during any given week. So why should my folks be any different? I get that realizing your parents being as dumb or confused or frightened as you is as harsh a realization as anyone could have, but that’s because we don’t address it head-on. We inadvertently avoid it throughout our childhood, so when it finally hits it’s devastating.
When I experienced it, I remember being mad at society for pulling the wool over my eyes, having me think my mom and dad were without limits. I’d been duped and it wasn’t fair…especially to my mom and dad. They didn’t deserve a son—one they’d provided so much for—suddenly being cross with them because they no longer had every answer; because they couldn’t protect me from every atrocity of the outside world; because they weren’t the superheroes I was led to believe they were.
The older I get, the more I realize what my parents actually are: not superheroes, but antiheroes. And, quite frankly, that’s what I want them to be: complex characters, capable of good, bad, and everything in between. Sometimes they succeed, sometimes they slip, sometimes they fall, sometimes they fly. They’re complicated, like me. And I know for a fact my parents appreciate me seeing them as people and not perfection.
Even if your folks made the sweetest, most tender, tantric Kenny G-type love to create you, it wasn’t some super-human achievement. This stuff is pretty basic. It’s reproduction.
My mom and I recently started going to therapy together—a twist I never expected this late in our relationship. At the ripe age of 70, when most people are stuck in their ways and completely resistant to change, my mother agreed to see a therapist with me so we could better understand one another. And that to me celebrates how amazing she is more than any holiday ever could.
So, if this pitch for a holiday ban is ever actually read by Mr. Trump (assuming he can read) and he, for once, successfully manages to ban something—don’t worry, nobody’s telling you you can’t shower your parents with love. It’ll just be healthy, logical love. Find another, more mundane day to send them a gift and a card. We live in a capitalist society, for Christ’s sake. There’s no shortage of holidays for you to buy Mom or Dad something that says “Thank you.”
Trust me, a new Blu-ray player showing up on the doorstep for no apparent reason other than it being Arbor Day is something every parent can understand.
Obviously, this has particular relevance because we’re all about to experience the Banner in Chief back in the White House again. Of course, whatever happens, not a single one of us has the slightest ability to predict it, so we really should stop trying, honestly. We can very easily take issue – all due respect – to Mr. Derosa being a non-believer in there being such a thing as the “World’s Greatest Mother” at all. That’s clearly wrong. Just ask my mother.
We would encourage you to find Joe DeRosa online, however, and attend at least one of his live shows. You’ll have a great time … and maybe you’ll get a chance to tell him about your mom too.
