This was a shocking revelation. I can’t be sure of the exact tip-off: was it the thirty-seventh email with photo attachments I had received from my mother showcasing the highlights of a Turkish cave hotel or that at the time of receiving it I was alone in my apartment on a Friday night watching a repeat of Master Chef?  Whichever the case, the fact was, I had mind-stumbled upon a completely new phenomenon.  I was shaken and unsettled.

Both parents are seasoned performers of the sixth decade.  I, on the other hand, am half their age, an extremely interesting individual and a very fun young woman.

Up to this point in the lifelong escapades of Daughter Versus Parents, I had blindly assumed the post of dominant fun-maker.  I was the great adventurer of the bountiful and boundless lands of fun and would regularly return to tell the tales.  But a transfer in the power balance had taken place.

A quick mental reflection over the past months exposed a sequence of phone conversations that revolved around all the exciting things they were doing.  When one of them was forced to break speech to recuperate oxygen, it was my turn to talk.  I struggled to come up with fun-based content to raise the stakes.  There are only so many times you can extract a fresh angle on a top story like dancing with supermodels in the desert and when you’re dealing with fun parents of leisure, you’re up against quality, outrun by frequency.  No… I’d chime in with anguish of a complex work project, corporate politics or something else equally mundane that had planted itself in my storytelling offering as an unbeatable idea to share. I mean, take today for instance: the most exhilarating thing that’s happened to me so far was getting mildly electrocuted by my earphones on the way to work.  And yes, I will be telling my Mum that when I talk to her next.

The two sixty-something-year-olds in question continue to not only be phenomenal parents, but phenomenal people.  This emotional backlash I was inciting on the ones who gifted me the opportunity to breathe in and out caused me a slight internal horror and I was grateful thought moved fast: in seconds I arrived at The Lion King.  This wasn’t about fun; it was a Circle of Life issue.

My parents have fruitfully emerged from the long hard years of family-raising and career, during which time I enjoyed a fanciful existence of essentially doing whatever I wanted.  If there are any mothers reading this post you might balk at my next comment, but it’s where I am: I am ready to not be able to have fun whenever I want to.  I don’t mind the thought of having to stay awake all night because a child won’t sleep. I’m also looking forward to perpetually syphoning hundreds of thousands of dollars into feeding, clothing and educating other human beings.  I guess that’s the silver lining of the thought process when you want something important but at times entertain the possibility you might not get.

So for now, I will champion my generational elders having the time of their lives, wholeheartedly support their reckless spend of the inheritance and will enthusiastically respond to every email with photo attachment I receive. I’ll get the power back soon enough.

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