Trying to understand why parents hate me

One nice thing about being married to a woman close to my own age: no living in-laws. Now, that may seem harsh, but I don’t mean it that way. I met Mrs. Taylor’s (formerly Lori Frankforter’s) father only once, shortly before he passed away. He seemed like a fascinating man; someone I would have enjoyed knowing.

Likewise, Mrs. T’s (fLF’s) mother – from all I’ve heard – was a nice enough woman. I would have liked them both.

But if past experience is any indication, they would not have liked me.

Ever since Diana, my first “real” girlfriend at age 16, girls’ parents have hated my stinking guts. I’m not sure why.

I’ve been told by people who should know that I have something of a blind spot when it comes to my own personal (and, apparently, abundant) flaws. Whether these decades of parental disdain are the direct result of one of these flaws is anybody’s guess, but it has always been a problem.

Not a problem for me, so much, but for the parents. One thing I have learned over the years; if a girl’s parents dislike you, odds are their daughter will wind up liking you even more. A psychiatrist could probably explain this dynamic, but I can’t.

Diana, for instance. I’m certain both her mother and father spent most of their free time trying to figure out ways to kill me and make it look like an accident.

He was a preacher, she a preacher’s wife. In their minds my death would have been nothing but divine intervention, God’s way of ridding the world of a menace on a par with Judas Iscariot or the antichrist.

The Good Reverend was convinced I had “designs” on his daughter. That’s exactly how he put it to me early on in our relationship: designs. I assured him this was not the case, but of course I was lying through my teeth and we both knew it.

I mean, I was 16, man! “Designs” weighed so heavily on my mind that I could barely figure out how to put my socks on in the morning. It wasn’t my fault. A billion years of evolution had made me that way! (By the way, evolution is an excuse you do not want to fall back on when defending your zealous libido to a girlfriend’s fundamentalist minister father. Found that one out the hard way.)

Point is, Diana’s parents hated me. I’m sure they were thrilled when she finally dumped me for a guy who owned his own car.

The parents of my next serious girlfriend, Corky, were atheists; cool, ultra-liberal hippy-types. They smoked pot. They read Rolling Stone and spent hours out on their back deck practicing tunes on their alto recorders and lutes. Corky’s dad’s hair was longer than mine, for cryin’ out loud!

They should have loved me, but didn’t. I’m guessing it was for the same reason Diana’s folks didn’t love me.

To be fair, I understood this attitude better years later, shortly after my own daughter hit her teens. As a parent, I spent many a late night waiting on the front porch, wishing I owned a shotgun.

But that all changed once Aubreii married. I liked her husband a lot and my days of boyfriend-hating and shotgun-wishing were over.

Not so with my first set of in-laws. They hated me even after I walked their daughter down the aisle. They did their best to hide it, but I could tell.

There have been a few wives and many girlfriends since then (which, I suppose, helps explain why parents hate me). I’ll be the first to admit I’ve had a tough time with commitment. I mean, most guys develop at least a little emotional maturity before they’re old enough to qualify for AARP membership.

What can I say. I’m a late bloomer. Or, possibly, just kind of stupid. Either way, I seem to be getting the hang of this whole relationship thing. Finally, and at long last.

Mrs. T (fLF) seems pretty happy with my performance so far, at any rate.

So who knows? Maybe it would be a good thing after all if my in-laws were still with us. Maybe I’ve finally become someone a parent could like.

Maybe.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 730-1414

My track record is not good when it comes to parents

Traditionally, I’ve had problems with the parents of girls I date. It started in fourth grade, when I got caught holding hands with Genevieve Castinetta and only began to abate as I approached my current age. These days, the parents of most girls I date are dead.

I would never wish anyone dead, but I have to admit, the fewer girlfriend’s parents there are in the world, the fewer people there are that hate my stinking guts.

I’m thinking about this at the moment because of the lunch I had this past weekend with my ex-wife three times removed (meaning, she’s three exes back in the unhappy queue of otherwise intelligent women who decided, at some point, that I would make a good husband).

Linda’s a wonderful woman and we’ve remained friends over the years, in part because of the two (now grown) children we share. Having lunch together gave us a chance to catch up on the kids’ problems, her husband’s recent surgery, my recent surgery ... the kind of stuff old people talk about when they haven’t seen each other for a while.

Eventually the conversation turned to Sweet Annie, my honey for the past four years or so.

Linda, who is familiar with my problem getting along with parents, asked the obvious question.

“How’s her dad like you?”

“We get along,” I said. “He’s a tough, old Irishman. I like him.” Which is true; he is and I do.

“Yeah, but does HE like YOU?” Linda pressed.

“Well … better than most,” I admitted. “He puts up with me.”

Linda nodded knowingly. She didn’t say anything more about it, but I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking of the day, 35 years ago, that I met her mother.

Linda and I had only known each other a week or so. We met at a party, went to the beach together the next day, and decided that same evening to get married, which we did, exactly three weeks later. 

I was very young and impulsive. I’m not sure what Linda’s excuse was.

Her mother and step-father lived in Florida. When Edna and Al (fake names) heard of our impending nuptials, they drove straight through to Michigan to meet the somewhat dazed and confused groom-to-be (me).

They were waiting at Linda’s apartment when I arrived there from work. Edna and Al both seemed like nice folks; all smiles and congratulations, happy to be meeting the guy that was marrying their beautiful daughter. It was the first time I could remember a girl’s parents liking me, or even pretending to.

Alas, the warm, fuzzy feeling was not to last.

Leaning against the dining room wall, in a heavy, expensive frame, was one of the worst paintings I had ever seen. It had not been there that morning. 

It might have been a still life, but it was impossible to tell for sure. The composition was terrible, the form and style lamentable. The technique reminiscent of something a third-grader might resort to if he was in a big hurry to get to recess.

It was awful in every way.

“Well, what do you think of it?” Al asked, winking slyly.

Now, in my defense, I was at the time working as a commercial artist for a large publishing house. Before that, I had for years studied art in high school and college. I knew something about the subject, or thought I did.

I assumed — as any sane person might — that Al had purchased the painting at a garage sale and dragged it here as a joke of some sort. His sly wink seemed to confirm this supposition.

So. For the next three minutes, I proceeded to explain, in excruciating detail, exactly why this painting was horrific beyond all understanding.

If I had been half as smart about people as I was about art, I might have noticed the faces of those around me: Linda’s, stunned; Edna’s, crestfallen; Al’s, furious.

“…and that is why this is the worst paining I’ve ever seen,” I finished proudly, certain I had impressed my soon-to-be in-laws with my critical pontification.

It was at this point I noticed nobody looked particularly impressed.

“Edna painted that for you,” Al rumbled slowly, “as a wedding present.” 

Linda and I were married two weeks later and, despite the fact I was barely old enough to shave, we managed to stay together for five years. Edna and Al went back to Florida with the certain knowledge their daughter had thrown her life away on a fool.

In the long decades since, I have grown a little wiser. Not a lot, but a little.

Still, I’m kind of glad Sweet Annie’s dad doesn’t paint.

Contact Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.