Things you parents did when you were a kid that made you fuggin nuts!!!!!!

This is an easy one, friends.

I’ll start:
In 1974 (I was 14) I was really into trains. I had a small HO train set but preferred a Lionel train set and talked about it for almost 9 months. On my birthday morning in '75 (Halloween Day, BTW) I woke up to find a large box (the same size box as the train set came in that I wanted!) on the kitchen table. There it was: The Lionel train set I really, Really, REALLY,** REALLY**,** REALLY** wanted!

Until I opened it and found some fucked up pong game that I had no interest whatsoever in even attempting to attempt to play even once.

But… none of my brothers or sisters could play it either because after we had hooked it up my parents had read some article “somewhere” that TV games ruin the television set and wouldn’t let any of us play this stupid game they had bought me.

BTW, the “PONG” game cost more than the Lionel train set that I had wanted.

Beat that, but I’ll be back with more.

Mine played ancient country music. Beat THAT!

And smoked in the car all the time (my dad, anyway).

In 1970s Alabama both were mandatory. You’d get a ticket if you weren’t doing that.

My parents were both major steak eaters, which is not surprising perhaps since we lived on a cattle farm and had cows butchered periodically so we got it a lot cheaper than most people. Anyway, I didn’t like steak then and I still don’t- has nothing to do with health or ethics or anything of the sort, it’s just not one of the foods I like. I would honestly rather eat a piece of hamburger than a T-bone any day of the week.
I used to hate the lecture about how I was unappreciative- there were kids out there who would LOVE to have a steak “and there you are trying to slip it to the dog! Do you have any idea how much money that steak would cost in a store!” No, I didn’t, and still couldn’t care less. How you can’t convince two intelligent people that you can’t FORCE somebody to like a food they don’t like is beyond me.
My siblings inherited the ‘beefeater’ genes.
The last time I was at my brother’s house he served thick and rare grilled T-Bones and I had flashbacks. I ate just enough to be polite and when he and his wife weren’t looking I cut up the rest, wrapped it in a napkin and took it to my dogs. Perhaps I exist in a way as a means for dogs to get steak.

Probably the best approximation I can give of my parents with well known fictional characters would be Lois- the mother from Malcolm in the Middle- add a slightly southern and slightly German accent and a lot of neurosis- and Fred Gwynne’s Judge Haller from My Cousin Vinnie, minus the humility and the hygiene. Going in public with either could be interesting, but my father especially so and God FORBID if he either decided to hold court that day OR took his mother or one of his aunts OR an old man named James Oscar who resembled Strother Martin on the 6th day of a bender and who my father would never NOT pick up if the old drunk was out either hitch hiking or walking along the roadside that day. Those were days I prayed for nobody from my classes to be anywhere near.

No time to recount every interaction with my parents in my life.

Yeah. The easier question would be ‘what didn’t they do…’.

I can relate. We didn’t live on a cattle farm; Mom just bought huge amounts of cheap steak when it was onsale and froze it. The proplem was that both of them prefer their steak well-done; Mom thinks “rare” means “a bit of pink”. :smack: Growing up I though steak was one of the nastiest things there was. I hated it and could not understand how it was a treat (well other than for our dog). No matter how much I told her she just didn’t understand how I could not like steak. Even worse she’d always serve these giant cuts of steak. Which I’d eat less than half of.

Then when day I was at my older brothers for July 4th party. He made steaks and insisted I try one. They were rare. Really rare, red lukewarm interior, bloody juices. I loved them. So I started order them in resturants, which upset Mom. Because it meant I hated her cooking. Which as a personel insult. Even worse until I was about 20 she’d try and “correct” the waitress as to what I “really meant” when I said rare (ie her defination “a bit of pink”). :dubious: Half the time this led to me getting a nice bloody steak and her freaking out because it wasn’t cooked (& trying to convince me to stop eating it so she could flag a waitress down to get it “fixed”). The rest of the time I’d get a medium/medium well steak, take a bite or two, refuse to eat it and make a very annoyed server bring out another steak. With Mom scolding and saying I was “making a scene”. I’ve since learned there’s alot of food I grew up hating only because of the way she cooked it.

My sister decided what I’d get for my 6th birthday. Pierced ears. I didn’t want pierced ears. The thought of someone putting something resembling a gun against both ears and pulling a trigger to send something sharp into my skin scared the shit out of me. But my sister (then 7 and desperate to have her ears pierced) managed to convince my mom that it’d be sooooo cuuuute for both of us to have pierced ears. She also managed to convince mom that I really wanted it.

I still remember shivering in that cheap jewelry shop (akin to a Claire’s or something), holding onto the arms of the chair and trying not to cry. To keep me quiet, my sister had told me how much mom wanted me to have pierced ears and said she’d cry if I acted like I didn’t want them. How my sister was that diabolical at 7, I have no idea. Anyway, it hurt like hell, but I didn’t cry and managed to pretend that it didn’t hurt several hours later. You can imagine my satisfaction when my sister’s piercings got infected and mine didn’t.

I still can’t imagine why my mom thought that having my sister tell her what I wanted for my birthday was a smart thing to do.

Mom was always a very sociable person, and she could talk on the phone with any of her many friends for hours at a time. Sometimes she would be really late to pick me up from football practice, or from the library. I would try to call home, but the line would be busy. I’d wait 30 minutes and call again–still busy. An hour or two later–same story. This was in the days before call waiting or cell phones. Once after about 3 hours of this I used a trick a friend told me about and I got an operator to do an “emergency breakthrough” on the line so I could remind her I was waiting.

I have Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS). A couple of my trigger foods are black pepper and raw onion. Guess what ingredients my mother loves? That’s right. I knew, even at a fairly young age, that if I ate something with raw onions or black pepper in it, my stomach would hurt for a long time, and I’d get diarrhea. However, if I tried to eat around the damn onions, or tried to refuse a dish that was heavily peppered, my mother declared that I was making a fuss over nothing. And on the rare occasions when we went out to eat, she’d tell the waitress to never mind my request for no onions, I was just trying to cause trouble. At family gatherings, she’d do the same thing, insisting that I eat stuff that others had prepared when I could see that there were a lot of onions or pepper in it.

I spent a LOT of time in unnecessary pain in my childhood.

I was latch key kid starting in early middle school. Learned to wash my clothes, take care of younger siblings, and basic cooking skills (even adult acceptable meals). And I wasnt the type of kid that couldnt find his ass with his own two hands either.

Many times I be left alone and in charge for the evening. On those days, while I was at school, mom would usually make stuff for dinner. It was apparently impossible for her to just say dinner was in the fridge. No, it was always this long horrible list of exactly what it was, exactly where it was, and exactly what to do with it. It sounded more like the programing instructions for a clueless robot on how to fix dinner.

I mean, it included phrases like take it out the fridge, put it in the oven, turn the oven on, take it out of the oven, put in on a plate…It apparently NEVER registered in her mind that I knew how to do this stuff, despite my regular protestations to the otherwise. Even today, if I go over to her house to do some work, and she is going to be out , she can’t just say “somethings in the fridge, help yourself”, I get this long list of exactly what all is in there and exactly how to prepare it.

This kind of thing was often applied to other regular tasks that were to be done by me, despite the fact I had been doing them for years quite well in general.

Nothing as bad as everybody else, but when dragged out shopping for clothing or shoes, we would go to the mall and I swear she had to lok at every single store, at every single item in the damned store.

All I every fucking wanted was to go in, get the damned pair of jeans or sweater or whatever it was I needed, pay for the damned thing and leave. I did not want to sherpa bags for 5 hours walking every store in the fucking mall. :mad:

I get severe eczema, for which soap has been a major trigger since I was about 15, which was when it got worse (after a childhood of being told I’d grow out of it in my teens of course).
I’ve lost count of the number of times since then she’s bought me fancy scented soaps… I just pass them on to my housemate, but really?

Every time I see her she has to make a comment on how good/bad my skin’s looking at the moment. And then gives me soap.

One of my most painful childhood memories was when I was about 5.

My mother never really KNEW me, not even that young. I had taught myself hoe to read when I was about 4, and she never really understood this. She wasn’t a reader, she hated to read, and I absorbed it. I guess she thought I was just looking at the pictures.

My biggest passion in life has always been horses, and every birthday, every Christmas, I begged for a pony.


It was sometime before Christmas when I was 5. My parents & I were visiting my grandparents; I was in their bedroom, playing with their dog, the 4 adults were in the next room. I could hear my mother say, “We’re thinking about getting her a P-O-N-Y for C-H-R-I-S-T-M-S…”

Without thinking I came running out shouting “A pony? I’m getting a pony?”, happier than any little girl had ever been.

My mother changed instantly, her face turning to the angry expression I saw most often on her. She started screaming at me hell no you’re not getting a pony! You just ruined the surprise!

I was devistated, apologized, cried… to no avail. No pony. Never did get that pony.

All because I had the audacity to learn how to spell on my own.

My mom made our lunch sandwiches by putting a plop of jelly in the middle of the bread, putting a plop of peanut butter on the other side, and then smushing them together. So the first few bites of sandwich were nothing but bread, and then the middle part was inches think of PB and J. Yuck! Take the time to spread it out evenly!

Never tell my dad if you’re traveling anywhere. If you’re driving, he will tell you the “best” roads to take and how to get there as if you could not possibly read a map or plan ahead. Every single time. God help you if you just want to take the interstate and get there instead of all the two lane roads…

If you’re flying in somewhere, he will tell you how to get to your hotel, which airport to fly in to, which outer spur to use… gah! Drives me nuts! I KNOW DAD.

My mother was never on time for ANYTHING. Her time management was fine, it was just that what she was working on was obviously more important than ANYTHING else.

I have a fetish for arriving not only on time but well before. It drives my kids nuts…

I’ll see your Glen Campbell and Andy Williams… and raise you Mantovani, Percy Faith, André Kostelanetz, and the Dreaded “101 Strings Orchestra” (C’mon, even a garrote only needs one).

Those long highway car trips were always quite an experience.

“Please… I need to open a window…I’m going to be sick.”
“Awww…Cripes…You and car-sickness. It was that can of Pepsi Cola, wasn’t it?”
“…not exactly…”
“Here, I’ll turn up the radio. They’re playing Beautiful Music…”
:eek: :frowning:

I’m still in high school so I still get to deal with the things they do that make me fuggin nuts.

My dad smokes in the car, always. I hate it, and if I ask him to crack a window he seems to get offended. Mind you, he has already been through cancer of the larynx.
Both parents smoke in our house frequently, and I find that alot of my stuff smells like smoke. Which is disgusting.
My mom is never on time for anything, and she yells constantly. Its as if her volume control is stuck, all the way up.
Dad tells long, boring fucking stories every time he gets drunk, something he does quite often really. They are always the same ones, and he wont let you leave until hes done, when he begins another I’ve already heard.
He tries to talk me out of going to college. Need I say more?
There are thousands more.

Oh yeah? Well, we would have been lucky to get Glen Campbell and Andy Williams - we got Hank Snow and Wilf Carter. All around the water tank, waiting FOOOOR a train…

I know I may not be C&Ws biggest fan, but some of their stuff is happy & upbeat. And lets face it: The Man In Black was just plain Cool. But, if there is a Hell, I’m pretty confident one of the rooms plays Percy Faith’s ‘Autumn Leaves’ in endless loop… :eek:

we really do need a “Oh Dear Og No!!! NOOOOOO!!! Aaaaarrrrrgh!!!” emoticon