Who Am I? A Son

Welcome to my ongoing section about who I am.  Each post will contain just one segment of my life.  This is a way for you, my reader, to get to know me for more than the blogger on the internet that complains about Trump. Why name the series "Who Am I?"  Simple.  I love Les Miserables.  "Who Am I?" is my favorite song from my favorite musical.  So, who am I?  I am...

Lunch with my parents

...a son.

On March 27th, 1979, I graced my parents lives with my birth.  The following is a retelling of my life as their son.  Please note, I have acted as a script doctor for the 1st Act of this story.  My embellishments are in bold.

At a very young age, my mom threw me into a coffee table and I needed stitches.  Later on, she ripped the stitches out herself.  I can't remember if it was before or after this, but my dad tipped me out of a wheelchair and into a river at Busch Gardens.  It was NOT an accident.

Everything is kind of a blur after that for some time.

My mom was the disciplinarian what with the wooden spoons and bars of soap.  My dad never had to.  He just took us into a bathroom, sat us on a counter, and used his dad voice to tell us why we were there.

Scariest.  Shit.  Ever.

It got to the point where, if my brother and I were misbehaving, he'd just look at us and, in his deepest dad voice, ask "Do we need to go to the bathroom?"

We shaped up right away.

We went on many vacations growing up.  It's odd.  My parents didn't have a lot of money, but I never knew it and the vacations growing up were pretty fantastic.  From Vegas to California road trips to Disney World to Hawaii to Canada for Expo 86 to road trips around the nation.

Then I became a teenager.  I was a typical teenager.  (Read: terrible).  I talked back.  I sneaked out.  I smoked.  I was pretty bad.  There was this one time my dad forced me to eat an entire bowl of Captain Crunch before I could have Thanksgiving dinner.  There was another time, he wouldn't buy me food for an entire weekend and forced me to chop down a tree all summer.

Notice there is no bold writing in the previous paragraph?  All true.  Though, I neglected to mention that the Thanksgiving incident was because I poured an entire box into a bowl that morning and added milk before realizing I couldn't eat that much.  The weekend of no food and summer of lumberjacking was because I got sent home early from a retreat for sneaking out.  They were all lessons about wasting money and paying back what I owed.

I moved out at 18.

I am 37 at the time of this writing and if you look at the photo at the top of this post, you know that times have changed.

I talk to my parents on the phone at least once a week now.  My wife and I hang out with them at least 2 times a  month, if not more.  I love hanging out with my parents.  Sure, we don't often agree politically or religiously but...

We drink beer together.  (We visit a brewery together probably once a month.)

We take vacations together. (In 2016 we cruised together and did a week in San Diego together and we've just booked another cruise for 2017.)

We do charity work together. (Just a few weeks ago, we spent the day working at Toby's.)

We dine together.  (Seriously, we dine out all the time.)

We work together at weddings.  (My dad is ordained and marries a few of my clients and my mom is his assistant and my event staff.)

My parents turned out to be pretty okay people and I think I turned out to be a pretty okay son.  And it's because of them, I turned out to be a damn fine father.