A short story about AAAAAARGH!

Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents. I am forever in their debt for all the sacrifices they’ve made in order to raise me and my sisters, for the love, support and encouragement they’ve always surrounded us with and for the myriad of ways they’ve shown us to be kind and decent people. I really do adore my folks. But that doesn’t change the fact that I fear turning into them more than I fear a weekend trip to Ikea.

could be worse. your parents could be these two.

Unfortunately however, my transformation’s already happening – as it is with you and the people who made you. You may not have noticed it actually unfolding yet but make no mistake, there are three certainties in life: death, taxes, and slowly adopting the traits and characteristics of one or both of your parents.

If this is news to you I’ll understand if you now need to take a short break from reading in order to emit some high-pitched screams or low, guttural moans. Regardless of how much you love your parentals, it’s ok to not want to become them. Our parents often drive us barking mad. That’s their job, right after feeding us, clothing us and teaching us how to avoid soiling ourselves at the drop of a hat (or even more importantly, soiling somebody else’s dropped hat.)

or these two.

My parents are no exception in the driving mad department (which can incidentally be found right next to the lingerie department at Myer Melbourne.) My mother has finishing other people’s sentences down to a fine art, provided that the artifice therein requires little more than just inventing the rest of the other person’s sentence rather than actually knowing what it is and finishing it correctly. For example, when dropping The Sprout off to Mum for a little visit last week I began: “I won’t take long coming back because I only have to…” Mum cut me off with “…have your hair done. See the dentist? Get your car cleaned.” The correct answer was “do a few groceries.” Not that I ever had a chance of getting that out.

My dad is a skilled selective listener who also excels at turning off lights. The selective hearing may be the result of having to sift through the possibilities of how all his sentences might end up according to Mum. Still, it doesn’t excuse his apparent inability to hear my metre-away question regarding whether he’s made his prostate check appointment while he’s simultaneously able to shut down my sister muttering something inflammatory about theRichmondfootball club under her breath upstairs. He will also stalk around the house, snapping off light switches with the phrase “Are you even using this anymore?” when you’ve barely left a room. When I still lived at home I used to enjoy having Dad see me hover in fully-lit doorways because I knew it left him totally unsure of when to pounce.

or god forbid.

Last week I had two people comment on my sentence-finishing abilities (which were deemed highly inaccurate) and The Bloke looked at me strangely when I asked how much longer he’d need the light on in the laundry. The selective hearing came into play when I ignored his observation that The Sprout, whose language skills are flourishing, seems to be getting bossier and bossier every day. Wonder where she gets that?

As published by The Melbourne City Weekly.