Well folks, it’s Friday. The weekend has arrived and it’s found my husband and I relaxing and reminiscing about our childhoods, our weekends and basically the things we used to think were the bee’s knees.
Although I admit I thought so at the time, my parents weren’t really over the top strict.
Side note: In the summer the other kids were usually playing outside as I watched from my bedroom window on tiptoes, clad in pale yellow baby-dolls. (Bedtime was a sharp 7:30!) And on two separate occasions, I was grounded for two weeks, once, because a friend was overheard swearing (logic says I must be swearing too) and the other, due to the fact that I was caught riding my bike with no hands.
Alas, I digress.
I wasn’t allowed to be a hooligan, I wasn’t allowed to swear, as mentioned above, and I had to be respectful, which is basically the first two points summed up into one. Easy, right?
I wasn’t allowed junk food, they would’ve liked me to get good grades and I had lots of chores.
Case and point: doing the dishes after dinner, no we didn’t have a dishwasher, included; rinsing, washing, rinsing again, drying, putting away, clearing up leftovers, wiping counters, wiping the table, cleaning the stovetop and sweeping the floor. That was every night and only counted as one chore.
I wasn’t allowed to have short hair or wear make-up. They didn’t want me to be common and I often got in trouble for always having my nose in a book. Go figure.
Much to their dismay, I did not turn out to be a ballerina, an award-winning Irish dancer or a gold league soccer star.
But…there were the weekends. Magic. An enticing British series would come on and we’d cozy up by the roaring fire, consuming several pieces of delectable, whiskey-infused chocolate.
We’d hike the forested five miles to the tantalizing tangerine filling station and I was granted two Icy Cups from the big jar on the counter as a reward.
We’d ride our bikes down to the local pool and swim for free in the misty summer rain.
I’d play Queen, The Police, Pat Benatar, The Beatles, Yazoo, Air Supply and anything else I could get my music-greedy little hands on, using my parent’s state of the art stereo system.
Company would land in and I’d be allowed to watch TV as late as I wanted in my room on my tiny, orange plastic, black and white portable, a bowl of chips, licorice and a Root Beer float at my side.
Now that I have kids of my own, I know my parents weren’t all that strict. They were simply trying to survive while keeping me alive and unscathed by the not so savory things life has to offer.
I never wanted for anything and it turns out that what I thought was the bee’s knees then, still is and, I am in fact, unscathed.
Hazy Shades of Me 