A treatise on the people who love you
Last night, I fell down the stairs.
Okay, I didn’t fall, I slipped. It wasn’t necessarily down the stairs, but certainly a few steps. My stockinged feet betrayed me on the smooth wooden stairs leading down from my bedroom, and I went for quite the tumble. I’m fine, really. I have a small scrape on my arm that soap and a few days will easily take care of. You don’t make it to adulthood without falling down a few times. Still, even in my 20s, nothing was more comforting—and slightly more embarrassing—than hearing my dad push down the footrest of the recliner two flights below, and race up the steps to check on me.
I’m living at home now, and I love it. I’m 22, but barring two or three months every summer where I would move back home to Hamilton to work, I effectively moved out at 17. I know, it looks ludicrous on paper. It was and remains ludicrous to think about. I was truly a child. A small, shy baby with a full set of bangs, moved out at 17. I didn’t even have a good reason to leave home other than I thought that that was what teenagers did after they graduated high school. I thought to myself, I am so mature. I am so old. What a load of horse shit.
“A small, shy baby with a full set of bangs, moved out at 17.”
The four or so years I lived away from home I stayed in either residence or student housing. I never, not even once, felt like I had a place where I could truly relax. I lived in a variety of places with a variety of people, and I unfortunately had more than my fair share of brutal roommates. During this time, I learned that some people don’t use soap to wash their dishes, don’t believe in wiping down a counter after using it, think it’s okay to engage in sexual activity in the beds of other individuals, and that some people have an almost sociopathic disconnect from the emotions and experiences of others. Who knew?
It was during this tumultuous period of my life that I learned that my parents are pretty unreal. It’s not like I wasn’t aware of this before, I think I just didn’t have the capacity to appreciate just how magnificently chill they truly are. They are, without a doubt, the two strangest, most wonderful parents around and I truly, truly feel sorry for all of you for not getting to experience the sheer delight and calamity of the Paquette-Struger family. I don’t have nearly enough time or room to go into the hundreds of ways my parents have supported me, cared for me, or shaped me into the person I am today. Instead, I’ll try to give you the tiniest glimpse into what I’m trying, ineffectively, to get at.
“It was during this tumultuous period of my life that I learned that my parents are pretty unreal.”
One of my favourite stories to tell involves the first time my best friend came over for dinner. Due to lucky coincidence, or planetary alignment, or grave misfortune, my entire family (all four of us) was present to welcome her into the fold. My best friend, at the time, was remarkably shy and uncomfortable around new people. I hadn’t told my family this. Anyway, we sat down for dinner and I asked her if she’d like anything to drink, she said yes but insisted that I remain seated and begin eating (so polite, poor girl). When she opened the cupboard housing our glasses (not our wine glasses or crystal, mind you), she asked if it was okay to use any glass. Baffled, I responded yes. She returned to the table, glass in hand, and my family launched into immediate, synchronized bullying. All at the same time, my father said, “Not that one!” My mother turned to me and asked, “Where did you find this rabble?” My brother shook his head disparagingly at her and I merely swore. Maybe you had to be there, but she insists it was hilarious and terrifying.
“I think people are so keen to think negatively of living at home because they view it as a failure to launch.”
I think people are so keen to think negatively of living at home because they view it as a failure to launch. I’m not going to write about inflation, or job markets, or student debt, or the housing market, or the indecency of the non-existent living wage, or any other fiscal concept we all pretend to understand to impress one another’s friends whom we’ve never met. I’m tired of that pseudo-intellectual crap (that’s certainly an editorial for another time). Living at home rocks (for me at least) because there’s always bread and fresh fruit, everything is so clean, the furniture matches (or at least looks cared for), and because I’m living with the two people I love the most.
All of my memories of home, of my parents, even the not necessarily pleasant ones, are warm and tender. Ultimately, this is what I look for in my friends, in my partners, in anyone close to me. Your parents are the most important and formative relationship you will ever have. Some of us get real lucky.