Making Lemonade

My husband and I always tell our son that someday he will have enough material to write a multi-year sitcom.

To date, we are certain he has at least a year’s worth of scripts.

Tapping into genes he’s acquired from both sides of the family, our son has the ability to turn minor disasters and other unhumorous situations into comedy gold. This is a must-have if you aspire to be a good writer. Which he does.

We just hope that when he looks back on his years of indentured parental servitude, he is able to forgive and, if not forget, at least to make sculptures from the wreckage.

As much as we want our parents to have all the answers, the inevitable day comes when we realize they were just human, too. And that they, in turn, had their own ghosts to wrestle with. My father, in an unusually unguarded moment, once told me, “Compared to my dad, I’m stupid. My dad was a genius.”

Over time, and with the gift of hindsight, I’ve been able to see my mom and dad as adults. I know there are things I would have done differently from them. But I also know we’re all doing what we can. I wouldn’t trade my folks. It wasn’t all shits and giggles growing up, but I’ve learned no one, if they’re honest, gets through childhood unscathed. And sometimes you just have to let it go.

Or make it funny.

Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad.