The Happiest Families

For a long time, my parents (a psychiatrist and psychologist) co-wrote a column for the newspapers entitled 'Happier Families'. They discontinued the series shortly after my sister was born and though I've been told that there is no connection between the two, I can't help but wonder….

Last week I made the mistake of reminding them about it. And that's how the whole absurdity began. After an eternity of "Do you remembers…" my parents ridiculously concluded that our family isn't Normal. Now I've never professed to understand them all that much, but this was beyond even the most skilled of interpreters.

Though I know my sister would love to, neither of us belongs to a motorcycle gang, wears leather jackets, spiked wristbands, green eye shadow and fishnet stockings. Fishnet stockings are not Normal. The rest is just a personal opinion. But fishnet stockings? Definitely not. We dislike Mondays, detest cabbage and can't stand the cafeteria food. We adore Peter Pan, love shopping, and she's crazy about Prince William, which I've been assured is Normal. So what did he mean we're not Normal?

In a Normal family (according to my father), everyone dines together. They spend time with each other having fun. They have chores which they are expected to apply themselves to diligently. They pick up after themselves…. Well you see where he was heading? He's quite obviously in the wrong era, the kind with black and white TV sets and rotten plumbing. I didn't say that, though. What I did say was, "Great. Why don't we all watch a movie together?"

My dad was really happy, the poor unsuspecting soul. My mum was suspicious (and rightly so). My sister thought I was crazy. That feeling is mutual. But in one of those rare moments of chumminess, I confided in her. Dangerous, but then I always was the daring sort. Plucky, don't you know?

It was rather simple. My parents wanted to bond (as opposed to Bond, which is something I want). Oh we'd bond alright. It was one of the few occasions my sister and I found ourselves on the same side, but it was for a worthy cause. We decided to start with 'doing fun things together', because dining together involved green leafy vegetables that couldn't be smuggled out to the dogs.

Hollywood would have quite the effect we desired and it would be a brilliant way to start. So on Monday, we decided to watch 'The Princess Diaries' together. On Tuesday, my sister picked 'A Cinderella Story'. Wednesday and Thursday went the same way. Friday my dad had to work late. Saturday my mum had a terrible headache. Sunday, they said, is the day of rest. Being the Conscientious Christians they are, they refused to get out of bed. I'm glad. I was running out of (barely) tolerable chick flicks. I had 'Bend it Like Beckham', 'Freaky Friday', and 'New York Minute' lined up, and was beginning to wonder if anything could be worth 'I love Lucy' reruns!

We started 'picking up' after ourselves as well. In a moment of good will, I decided to pick up after my dad too. That's how his morning papers got mixed up with the Recyclables. Do you know how annoying it is when your mum goes into your room with The Feather Duster and cleans it up for you? You can't find anything anymore and the positive energy of the place gets disturbed. I call it Feng Shui. My mother calls it mess. I don't need to 'pick up after myself'. God never did anything about his cosmic dust. It's the generation gap, I think.

This "Let's do it together" drive fizzled out after one of our father-daughter outings landed my dad at a rock show.
Now my father is a brave man. He's climbed mountains, fought bears, and he's even killed a cockroach. No matter how vehemently my mother denies it, there was a cockroach in my house. Though if you plan to lead a long, happy and healthy life, I suggest you never bring the topic up. One of my friends wanted to start a cockroach farm ('Cockroach Clusters' says it all) and thought my house was an excellent place to start breeding them, but that's another story. He's now in hospital, with a few broken bones and a bundle of ominous threats to keep him company. My mother specializes in ominous threats. And broken bones. Oh yes, my father is brave. But the rock show left him a broken man. A rousing rendition of 'PINK is the colour of passion' was all it took.

My mother was harder to convince, since we actually have a few things in common. Shopping. She's a compulsive shopper, while I'm an impulsive shopper. That doesn't necessarily mean that her credit cards are safer with me. It only took a few shopping trips for her to realise that she really didn't mind me hanging out with the other scruffy mall rats as much as she thought she did. Enlightenment.

The problem with parents, is that they soon turn into groan ups. They might have been fun back in the days of yore, but parenthood brings along with it a certain type of amnesia. Oh if only I had a penny for all the times I'm certain my mother said "I'll never be like my parents", I'd be able to buy myself a new pair of Jimmy Choos. And then some. Parenthood is convenient. Growing up isn't, as I found out not so long ago. Because when it comes to responsibilities, I'm always "Old enough to handle them on my own", but if I want to do something fun, it's "Not as long as you live under my roof, young lady."
There's no justice in this world, I tell you.

Coming back to the narrative. Our plan worked great - our parents left us alone (just say "Aerosmith" and watch the haunted look spring into my dad's eyes). The Family was back to normal, a relatively peaceful state, as opposed to Normal, which is most tiresome and quite unattainable.

George Burns once said "Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city".

He has a point, you know.