Today is my parents’ anniversary. Fourty-two years together, and still going strong. Before I delve in further, let me say that there aren’t any images with this blog post because my parents don’t like to be photographed much and don’t want to have their images plastered all over the Internet. Out of respect for them, I am not going to post photographs of them, much as I’d love to share them with you.

I’m still reading Three Weeks with My Brother by Nicholas and Micah Sparks. It is slow going because so much of what they write really resonates with my own thoughts about my family, our interactions, and how we deal with issues. I have to put the book down because I’ll be in tears or I need to digest what was written and process it in regards to what I’m thinking about my own family.

They write about the death of their mother, and how that impacted their family. They talk about their father, who estranged himself from his family, refusing to talk to his siblings or parents, who was angry with his children. This breaks my heart because I see the same thing with my parents.

My mom used to be a vibrant, amazing woman who was the life of the party. Everyone knew her. Everyone liked her. She even ran for mayor and did fairly well for being so new to local politics and running against a man who was firmly planted in Flagstaff politics and had lots of money to back him up. And while my mom and I have never really gotten along (I can’t remember ever getting along with her, not even when I was a young child), my friends would love to go to our house after school because she was there and she was the cool mom. She got along with my siblings very well for many many years. These days, she doesn’t talk to very many people at all, least of all most of her children.

I don’t really know my dad. I lived with him for eighteen years, but I don’t really know him. He has seemed angry most of my life. I’m not sure why. I don’t know what he thinks about, what is important to him, what he dreams of. I know he likes to ride motorcycles and that he’s an amazing artist when he acts on that impulse. I know that he has had a strong relationship with his mom and that his siblings like him.

But I don’t know my parents. I love them, but I don’t know them. For so long now, they have blocked themselves off from being a part of my life at any depth. I didn’t do the shopping thing with my mom and bond over that. I wasn’t a daddy’s girl who could bat her eyelashes and get what she wanted from daddy. I think I’ve always been a disappointment, someone who changed their lives, who forced them into something they may not have done otherwise: marriage.

So while today is a day of celebration, and I did send them a card, it’s also a day of sadness. These people do not celebrate in the changes that are occurring in my life. They do not understand that so much of what I’m able to do is because of how they raised me. As the Sparks brothers write,

“But you know, in the end, you have to give them both credit for being good parents simply because of the way their kids turned out. We’re happily married, successful, ethical, and we remained close as siblings. If your kids can say the same thing later in life, won’t you think you did a good job as a parent?”

“Without a doubt,” I conceded. (p. 247)

Although I doubt you will read this, I want to put it down. Dad and Mom, you have been good parents. Look how we turned out: a professor, a doctoral student, a fireman, and a telemetry technician, each a very good place to be in life. We’re all happy, ethical, and close to one another. We have accomplished things that we all only dreamed of, and it is because of the foundations you gave us that these were possible. We are not only reaching our dreams and goals, but surpassing them.

Be proud of us. Celebrate in these accomplishments. Bask in the knowledge that if we hadn’t had you as parents, we probably wouldn’t have been able to do these things.

Happy anniversary. I love you.