AGING PARENT PROTESTS GETTING OLD

An aging parent is the hardest part for kids growing up.

We like them in their prime years, when they could do anything, and did.

The part the kids never understand is how long we get to be an aging parent.

For context, remember your grandparents and how old they were at first. Got the picture? Are you older than them today?

Share the comparison with your kids and see how they take it.

“Wow, grandma and grandpa look so old,” they might say.

Resist the urge to remind them your parents in the picture were twenty years younger than you at the moment.

Back in their day forty was the new sixty, not the other way around. Men coming out of WWII and recycled for Korea were old by thirty.

Men coming out of Vietnam were aged beyond their years.

It’s fair to say the same about Iraq and Afghanistan vets. War is no fountain of youth, just the opposite, and the spray lingers.

Aging Parent Embarrasses Their Kids

What can you say about a sixty five year old man carving up a lake on a single ski, hitting the edges so hard they touch their elbow and send a rainbow hued spray up against a bright blue sky?

Instead of asking, “Who do they think they are,” why not admire the effort. Even if they make it look effortless, it’s not easy. Instead of asking any questions, just stand back in awe and say, “Thank you, Terry, seeing your wife’s pictures of you on the water are timeless.”

Speaking of time, the clicking sound you hear is the clock of life moving on whether you notice or not.

It won’t stop, you can’t make it stop, and it never slows down. What to do? Ignore it? Fear it? Or just do what you normally do?

If the normal thing is whining and complaining about one thing, then another, then the next round, that’s not normal.

More things not normal for an aging parent: blaming, scapegoating, finger pointing, senseless arguing. Men who engage in these activities have a nickname they probably don’t enjoy: Little Bitch.

When Little Bitch, LB, starts yelling and waving their arms, look away. If LB punctuates their latest bitch-fest by jabbing a finger in the air, stand back.

A Most Embarrassing Moment

Before I was an aging parent, before marriage and kids and the works, I met the parents of women I dated a few times.

Ordinarily I avoided family gatherings with dates. Why? If it was a casual accident, that’s one thing, but going for the express purpose of MEETING THE PARENTS? Oh, hell no. But it still happened more than it needed to happen.

After one evening of meet and greet, I left with my date. Once we got into the car and drove off with the windows down, I couldn’t suppress the hysterical laughter I’d been choking down. (Choking down feelings is a very adult skill to master.)

She asked me, “What’s so funny?”

I explained the best I could using Johnny Cash history lessons.

The dad had been everywhere. He’d been to:

Boston, Charleston, Dayton, Louisiana,
Washington, Houston, Kingston, Texarkana,
Monterey, Faraday, Santa Fe, Tallapoosa,
Glen Rock, Black Rock, Little Rock, Oskaloosa,
Tennessee to Hennessey, Chicopee, Spirit Lake,
Grand Lake, Devil’s Lake, Crater Lake, for Pete’s sake.

When the dad conversation included favorite cars, he went to Johnny again.

Well, it’s a ’49, ’50, ’51, ’52, ’53, ’54, ’55, ’56
’57, ’58’ 59′ automobile
It’s a ’60, ’61, ’62, ’63, ’64, ’65, ’66, ’67
’68, ’69, ’70 automobile

I’ve always like guys who know who they are, and could tell you what’s what, but I’ve heard Johnny Cash sing in person, and this dad was not Johnny Cash.

I may have aged a few years driving away from my date’s parents, laughing myself right through the calendar. Her anger was a soft irritation, which I found attractive.

Then she joined in with, “We ought to make up our own aging stories.”

“And tell them to the kids after we get married,” I said.

“Are you proposing?” she asked.

“I’m always on the verge of breaking up. This isn’t helping,” I said.

“You can’t break up with someone who is breaking up with you,” she said.

I liked her more right then, and said, “Are we breaking up?”

“If you don’t know, that could be a problem,” she said.

“A problem? Like what? What could be a problem?” I said.

“You’re the big history guy, you’ll figure it out,” she said.