Growing up with psycho parents

Families. Everybody has a family but I often wonder if every other family is as crazy as mine. They are completely nuts and I wonder how I turned out semi-normal. I use “semi” because I’m not really sure what normal is.

Family Weekend makes me think about my parents and all the little stories people have about their families.

It all started at birth. My birth mother and birth father were a little too young to have children so they did the American thing and gave me up for adoption. I have no problem with that because I know it is a hard thing to do.

Well, my mom and daddy adopted my sister first. Then, about two years later they got another call. They told my parents they had another girl for them. They were very excited because they wanted two children and now that was going to happen.

Unfortunately, my dad had lost his job at the time of the call. When they went in for their final interview and the agency asked my daddy if he still had his job, he lied and said yes. By the grace of God or some other unforeseen force, the agency didn’t check and they were given me a few weeks later. My daddy says he has been regretting the day ever since. I think that story sums up why I am a daddy’s girl. I love that story because I know I am really wanted.

After that episode, I was basically fine until I had to learn how to talk. Both of my parents are off-the-boat immigrants. My mom is from Wales and my daddy from England. When I learned how to talk, I did it with a pseudo-British-American-Missouri (pronounced Missoura to us natives) accent. It made for a lot of early childhood torture. Luckily I learned how to kick at an early age.

When I was in high school, people used to call the house and hang up because my mom would answer the phone “hallo” and people would think they had the wrong number.

It’s amazing how different the British speak v. Americans. I often tell people they speak English, but I speak the Queen’s English.

The Queen’s English v. American English has its communication problems. For example, my mom often tells me to put the groceries in the boot. I stop and think, I’m not wearing boots and why should I put the groceries in them? Then I realize that my mom means the trunk. If you are ever in a parking lot and you hear someone scream “it’s the trunk, just say it, it’s the trunk, we’re in America dammit,” you’ll know it’s me and my mom.

Of course the upside of Ye Olde English heritage is the many trips we made to England. The down side is that I was too young to really understand I was seeing the changing of the guards and it was a historical event that might not be someday (like today). I did get to stand and make faces at the guards and it’s true, they don’t even blink!

The history lessons I learned at home were always different than the ones I learned at school. Take the Revolutionary War. My dad maintains that we (Americans) cheated. How you ask? Well, we hid in the bushes like the cowards that we are and shot at the British soldiers. Then I reply that if the British were so smart, then how could they march in perfectly straight lines wearing bright red and not expect to get shot? Does the word “duh” mean anything to you?

If I really want to upset my dad I’ll casually say, “Well, who won the bloody war anyway?”

My sister and brother-in-law are your fairly normal, yuppie-I-own-a-condo-and-Infiniti-two-income nuclear unit. I don’t think I need to say anymore about that.

All in all though I’d say I did pretty well in the family department. I can’t complain. I have the most wonderful, completely psycho parents on the face of the earth. Oh, please send money, mom and dad.