Prepare yourself, this one is gonna be sappy.
So obviously, with the exception of my last post, I’ve been taking a little break from blogging. I know, I’m the worst sometimes. However could I leave you hanging like that. But don’t worry, I’m back now, and I did miss you all day (Hi dad, that was for you since I know you’re reading this. How’s your day going? Can I pretty please have more Starbucks money?)
During my break, which was also my winter break from school, I got to relax.
haha. good one, me.
I worked a shit ton, spent as much time with friends as I could, and pored over The Making of a Murderer in the brief moments before passing out from sheer exhaustion and too much mental shopping while working my seasonal retail job at Urban Outfitters.
However, I did get an opportunity to see my parents on a daily basis, even if just for the brief moments before getting in my car to drive to work, which rocked. It rocked my ass off.
Most college students dread going home. They hate the curfew, the inability to eat at 2 AM, and the disdainful looks received when they come home trashed. I am not one of those college students.
I LOVE going home because I love seeing my parents.
My parents are my biggest supporters and best friends. They may lay down the law, especially when it comes to my ridiculous spending habits, but they know when to be firm and when to bend a little, and they sure know the hell out of parenting.
Ever since I was little they treated me with respect and love and all the wonderful things parents should. They spoke to me with intelligence, making me write and speak the way I do to this day, with the exception of the occasional “y’all,” which was most likely picked up from the plethora of Texans at the University of Oklahoma. They joked with me. They made me feel comfortable telling them anything, even when I knew it was something stupid that I had done or would potentially “get me in trouble,” which was less grounding and more helping me realize why my mistake was a bad one and how to avoid it in the future.
Regarding my father, the interesting character that he is, he was always my pal. My play mate. The large child that related to me while also adulting enough to still be seen as a role model and wonderful father. He watched Project Runway with me. He got me drunk one time (it’s actually kind of a funny story, and also the getting drunk on champagne mentioned in this post). He picked me up when I fell down, except for that one time at the National Zoo, but I was being a little shit and totally deserved to walk all the way up the giant hill in D.C. while profusely bleeding from my knee, right dad? He pushed me to be excellent and to never settle for the ordinary, whether in my academics, my relationships, or even the way I regard myself. He reminds me that I am Miranda fucking Mcloughlin, and “I got this” in ever conceivable situation. My personal favorite moment occurred just last semester. It was the day I moved out of my first dorm due and into the one in which I currently reside. I had called him from the car while parked in the Walmart parking lot with my friend Paul to let him know I was all moved in. The anxiety about knowing no one in my hall and having to adjust to new suitemates had just set in and I was starting to panic a little bit. He said the words that I will never forget as I was mentioning that I was at Walmart about to purchase some canvases to spruce up my sad little dorm and make it a little more like home. He said: “You are Miranda fucking Mcloughlin. You could sit in a concrete room with nothing on the floor or walls and it still wouldn’t be sad because you would be in it.” That resonated with me in such a way that nothing ever really has. It made me realize that I truly was capable of handling anything thrown my way, and that I could handle it with a smile and a cup of coffee. And I wouldn’t trade that feeling for anything else.
As for my lovely mother, from whom I got my stunning good looks and modesty, she is the woman I want to be. She is the epitome of mother and career woman. For God’s sake she went to graduate school while pregnant with my brother, which is probably why he’s such an odd duck now. She is so astonishingly intelligent, to the point where I wish she had the opportunity to apply to Stanford like I did because I genuinely think she would have gotten in. She’s a born leader. She’s shy, but she’s so damn funny in a quiet, witty kind of way. She knows when to ask for help and how to offer it to someone that doesn’t. She can probably play any musical instrument like nobody’s business, even though I’m better at piano than her and she totally won’t accept it. She’s the biggest dork, in a sneakier way than my openly dorky father, in that she LOVES those stupid animatronic stuffed animals that dance and sing and are just genuinely obnoxious. She’s as resilient as they come, as kind as they come, as understanding as they come, and as wise as they come, and I have been so beyond blessed to be able to call her my mother.
In conclusion of this very long post, I fucking love my parents. They aren’t perfect people, but they are perfect to me. I love them so much it makes my heart hurt sometimes, like when I eat something spicy or see a dog. They are such wonderful, dorky, caring, weird, intelligent, cuddly, adorable, neurotic, charming people, and I’m so glad they bear the title mom and dad.