Once upon a time, parents would raise their kids to grow up and be self-sufficient adults in a world where sufficiency really was enough. And the unspoken (or, depending on the guilt-factor in your family, very spoken) agreement was that when the parents got old, the roles would be reversed and ma and pa would retire early and be forced to listen to their kids lecture, “When I'm your age...” Add a few dragons and princesses and you've got yourself a fairy tale, because that is not a reality that I'm familiar with.
These days it seems to be quite common for the parents to continue to take care of their adult kids, minus the high-chairs and rubber pants, of course (in most cases). People of my age group are not getting The Job for life the way previous generations did. We're flitting from post to post and field to field, either out of dissatisfaction, not knowing what we want to do, or because we've been laid off and replaced with a computer or a pimply-faced kid. How can I take care of my parents financially when I can't even afford two-ply toilet paper? The choice to eschew a regular paycheck for an irregular writing career was mine, and it's one I'm glad I made, but sometimes I can't help wondering about my place in the family tree, and therefore my worth as a daughter. Not to mention my mental state.
Considering that the world around me insists on luxury cars, flat-screen plasma TVs, and constantly upgraded cell phones that do everything but change a flat tire for you, I sometimes feel like there’s something wrong me. I’m materialistically-challenged. In fact, I hear the AMA has just diagnosed that as an actual disorder. I walk or take the bus everywhere (or just don’t go if the trip is too late, too far, or too many transfers). I've had to cancel all my magazine subscriptions—though it's easy enough to catch up on my reading at the doctor's office. When I have friends over for lunch, it's BYOMD&C: Bring Your Own Meal, Drinks & Cutlery. If I were born in the Renaissance, I'd have hooked up with a patron of the arts who would be happy and privileged to fund my life as an artist. In 2011, however, that's just a euphemism for high-class prostitution. Not that I'm judging. I may have to look into that career path soon enough…
So, my mom supports me whenever I am in danger of being evicted (i.e., the first of every month), while my dad supports my feelings of inadequacy. You know, I may not be able to pay off my parents' mortgage, fund their badly needed dental work, or even pay for their groceries, but at least I am able to draw from my wealth of good-heartedness and shower them with love, call them (and not from prison or Mexico), and offer to mow their lawn. It doesn't matter if they don't have a lawn - it's the thought that counts, as Hallmark has taught us.
And until thoughts require a payment plan, I’ll keep countin’ ‘em!
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