Top 4 Reasons My Parents are the Best

            by Natalie Gaber

 

      Parents. Everybody has them. Some are more exceptional than others, and I’d be willing to bet that mine are about as good as they come. I only had to trade in two other pairs before I found these ones. But really, in all seriousness, my parents are da bomb. And here’s why:

1. They gave me two loving siblings.

Okay, so to be perfectly clear, it was more like I was given to them since I’m the youngest, but still. My life would undoubtedly be different if I had been an only child. For one thing, I wouldn’t have obtained the flattering nicknames of “Cowis” and “Goatis”, and God knows I have gained a lot of self-confidence from these pet names.

The best part about my brother Dave calling me a cow was that whenever we played farm, my role was set. “Cowis, get in the barn!” Dave would instruct. I’d dutifully get down on all fours and crawl into the “barn”. Farmer Dave and his assistant, my sister Meredith, would then pretend to “milk” me.

“Mere, get the bucket!” Dave ordered. And so the days went.

Meredith and I had a special relationship too. Some who witnessed our interactions may have been tempted to call it a dictatorship, but I preferred to look at it as more of an educational experience.  Meredith was a talented ballerina with a desire to share her gift with the world, so I was forced—I mean lucky—to receive free lessons from her. She was determined to make a dancer out of me; when I told her that my feet just didn’t bend that way, she tried it for herself by yanking my feet into position. “Aha!” she said, as I collapsed in pain. “I knew you could do it!”

 

2. They sent me to Catholic school.

      My parents wanted me to receive the best education possible, and thus they turned to God. Well, God wasn’t physically present at the School of the Madeleine, but as I was taught in daily religion class, his spirit, the Holy Spirit, lived within my soul. That explained the odd pain I’d been feeling in my chest.

            The math curriculum at the Madeleine was truly exceptional. I really felt like I was making leaps and bounds in my progress, and I could almost feel my brain getting bigger (now that I think about it, that may just have been the Holy Spirit). However, my dad, being the loving parent that he is, wanted to make sure that I was really understanding the material, so he insisted on checking over my homework each night. God, what a nightmare. See, my dad has a “special” method of teaching: it’s called the “I’m-going-to-talk-really-slowly-and-quietly-and-make-you-feel-stupid-until-you-figure-it-out-and-I’m-not-going-to-help-you-even-if-you-start-crying-and-beg-me-for-help method.” He’s tried getting a patent for it, but so far he’s been unsuccessful.

            One of the great parts about going to a small, Catholic school was that everyone had a chance to show off their singing skills in several school-wide performances throughout the year. Us kids loved these events; who wouldn’t want to learn how to sing “Kumbaya” in Spanish AND French? And I know the parents, mine especially, enjoyed the performances too. I could see the joy (or was it horror?) twisted across their faces every time good old Kevin Young went for those really, really high notes.

            For those of us who loved being on stage, we had the opportunity to be in the annual school musical as well. I remember being so excited when I got a callback for “Fiddler on the Roof.” Would I be cast as Bielke? Hava? Tzeitel? The anticipation was killing me! Finally, Mr. Willers, the director (who quadrupled as the school’s computer teacher, vice principal, and resident expert on Don Bosco) called out the cast list. He went through all the main parts…Tevye, Golde, Yente, Lazar Wolf, all the way down to the Rabbi. I didn’t hear my name. Was there some kind of mistake? Then, Mr. Willers announced the names of the students who would be playing the villagers: “Molly Hetz, Natalie Gaber…” That was me! A villager, wow! I was super excited until I went home that evening and told my family all about my big news.

            “So you’re basically a rock,” Dave said. Oh. After that, I wasn’t so excited about the whole villager thing.

3. They took me on family vacations.

            Seattle’s a great city, I’m sure of it. I just wish I’d seen more of it than the inside of the toilet bowl in our hotel.

My parents thought it’d be nice for us to take a little trip up North to do some sightseeing—ya know, the usuals: Pike’s Market, the Space Needle, the waterfront. Unfortunately, right before we left, I managed to contract a nasty strain of the stomach flu. Being the generous person that I am (my parents always taught me to share what I had with others), I spread the virus to the rest of the family so they could join in the fun, too.

            My most vivid memory of this trip involves driving in a rental car along the streets of Seattle on our second day there. My dad, who was just barely conscious enough to maintain a grasp on the steering wheel, was driving, and my mom was sitting shotgun. Actually, her position would more accurately be described as “slumping.” Us kids were nearly passed out in the back, each of our faces a shade of puce. The next thing I remember is a noise emanating from the front of the car.

            “Bole oaaaar.”

            “What?” my dad asked.

            “Bole oaaaaaaar!”

            “I can’t understand you.”

“Pull over!” The urgency in my mom’s voice worried me. My dad quickly jerked across 3 lanes of traffic to the nearest stretch of curb. Before he had even stopped the car, my mom had thrown open her door and lost her lunch of clam chowder on the sidewalk. After that, we decided to call it quits and headed straight for the airport. I haven’t been back to Seattle since.

            A few years after the Seattle adventure, the parentals decided we should go on a road trip to southern California. Too young to stage a protest, my siblings and I were jammed into the family van and condemned to interminable car rides and extreme boredom.

            Our first stop was San Luis Obispo. My mom attended college there “back in the day”, so she was eager to show off her knowledge of the city and to show us all her favorite sites. “This is where my friends and I used to come for lunch, this is where they built a big wall, this is where they did biotech experiments, this is where I did my bug collection, this is where I saw a really cute guy, this is where Grandma took me out to dinner, this is where we ate after my graduation, this is where came when we were cutting class...” The list went on and on and on and on…

            After taking the full tour of San Luis Obispo and seeing more dirt and rocks than most bugs see in their lifetime, we piled back into the van and headed south; our destination was Marina del eay. I should have known we were in trouble when I saw the same McDonald’s three times in half an hour. Dave and Meredith kept giving each other worried looks, and I could see that my dad was gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were white, and he was doing that thing where he leans super far forward in his seat. The tension in the car was thicker than my Uncle Fred’s quadra-focals.

            Six hours later, what had been supposed to be a 2.5 hour drive had turned into a living nightmare. We had exhausted our supply of Cheez-its and juice boxes, and we had absolutely no idea where in the heck we were. We could’ve been in Timbuktu for all I knew.

            Suddenly, my mom began shrieking from the front seat. “Ahh! There it is! Marina del Rey!” She had apparently spotted the exit we were supposed to have taken 3 hours ago. My dad, after some brilliantly executed illegal maneuvers (who knew a loaded minivan could drive sideways at 75mph?), managed to get us off the freeway in the nick of time. We finally reached our hotel, which was located right in the middle of an urban city center.

            After we had peeled our legs off the pleatherette seat covering, we all got out of the stuffy van. A car backfired in the distance, and Meredith immediately shrieked and burst into hysterical tears. When my mom finally managed to calm her down, Meredith announced, “I hate L.A.!” Apparently, after watching a few too many episodes of “Cops” and supposedly hearing gunfire with her very own ears, Meredith was convinced that L.A. was a very sketchy city, and she was positive that she was going to get shot if we stayed there. We were supposed to spend the next day touring Marina del Rey, but after a hushed conversation that they thought we couldn’t hear, my parents made an announcement: “We’re going to Disneyland tomorrow.”

 

4. They taught me how to drive.

            Learning to drive is one of those coming-of-age experience that all teenagers have to endure. There’s nothing quite like feeling the wind blow through your hair as you cruise down the highway with Sheryl Crow blasting out of your subwoofers…oh wait, that was from a movie.

Before you get to “fly solo”, you have to learn how to operate the motor vehicle. Parents are known for being extremely patient with their kids, so they are the ideal driving instructors. I remember the first time I went driving with my mom. I got into the driver’s seat, put on my seatbelt, adjusted the mirrors, put on my sunglasses, and then…sat there. I suddenly realized that I didn’t know how to turn on the car. I decided it was better to pretend like I knew what I was doing than to give away my ignorance.

            I stuck the key in the ignition, and after doing eenie-meenie-miney-mo in my head, I decided to turn the key towards myself. EEEEEEEEEECCCHHHHHHHHHH-GGGGGGGGGRRRRRR! Oops. “NAT!!! STOP!” Mom chimed in, as if I hadn’t noticed that I had done something wrong.

            “Sorry!” I said sheepishly. The next challenge was figuring out the emergency brake/gear shift sequence. I couldn’t for the life of me remember which one to do first: gearshift or emergency brake? Emergency brake or gearshift? The two options played ping pong in my head while I racked my brain for any memories of the thousands of times I had seen my parents start the car. I was drawing blanks. Since eenie meenie miney mo hadn’t worked out so well before, I opted for Inky Binky Bonky this time. Gearshift won. I tentatively reached for the shifter, but before I could move it, my mom’s screech interrupted me.

             “What are you doing?! The emergency brake is still on!” Wrong again.

            “Oh, right, my bad!” Sweat was pouring down my temples. Was it hot in there, or was it just me?

            After I finally got everything squared away, I was ready for takeoff…err, drive off. I studied all of my mirrors for a good five minutes, and when it was clear, I pulled out of the parking spot.

            “STOP!!!” I slammed on the brakes and saw my mom’s arms (which seemed to have grown ten feet) yank the steering wheel away from me. A car blared its horn as it whizzed past me. Where did he come from? I swear he wasn’t there a second ago.

            “That’s it, you’re done!” My mom was angry now. And that was the end of my first driving lesson.

             Luckily, my mom’s heart rate had slowed enough by the next week that she agreed to let me drive us to the mall. I aced the pull-out (I wasn’t taking any chances this time—I waited nearly 11 minutes until I was certain that it was clear), and I was driving along down the street when I glanced over at my mom in the passenger seat. Her right hand was giving the death grip to the handle above the window, her left hand was squeezing the seat, and her right foot was jammed into the floor. On her face was a painful-looking grimace.

            “Mom, are you okay?” I asked, sincerely worried.

            “DON’T TAKE YOUR EYES OFF THE ROAD! PUT YOUR HANDS AT 10 AND 2! 10 AND 2!” Her foot dug deeper into the carpet, and I swear she made a dent in the handle as she squeezed it even tighter.

            “Okay, sorry!” I quickly repositioned my hands into the requisite 10 and 2 positions on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.

            The rest of the drive to the mall continued uneventfully for the most apart (aside from the occasional steering wheel grab and frequent “phantom braking” by my mom). I reached the mall parking lot and pulled up to the ticket dispenser. I rolled down my window and reached out to press the big green button. I couldn’t reach it. Instinctively, I unhooked my seatbelt and started to open my door, and I was about to take my foot off the brake so I could get out of the car when I was halted by the all-too-familiar, “STOP!!!!!” Crap. “Put the emergency brake on!”

            Shortly after I got my learner’s permit, both of my parents suddenly started having extremely high blood pressure. Luckily, they have medication for that now.

 

            Despite their many flaws, my parents really are the best. Even when they embarrass me (never again will I allow my dad to chaperone a volleyball tournament), I still love them. And I feel really, really lucky to be the youngest; all their parenting lessons had been learned by the time I came around (except for one: it is not normal for your 5-year-old daughter to stick an aquarium rock in her ear and forget about it for a week so it has to be surgically removed). So, I guess I’d just like to say a big thank you to my parents for all they’ve done for me: thank you for the vacations, thank you for the support, thank you for the food, and most of all, thank you for teaching me how to drive so I can get the heck away from you! Just kidding.