Growing pains from good parenting

You know that old phrase “always a kid at heart”? Yeah, I don’t get that. I guess it’s because I never really saw myself as a kid. I always felt either grown-up or in some weird, Britney Spears-esque stage between girl and woman.

As much as I liked watching Nickelodeon and playing with toys like any other child, I always used to be so serious and forward thinking about them. I’d watch shows like Clarissa Explains It All instead of Sunday morning cartoons because I couldn’t wait to become a teenager. My dolls loved wearing sensible heels that matched their business suits — I did not have to be older than seven to know that Barbie can’t maintain that bleached blonde ‘do without her male-dominated career as a stockbroker.

This mature (and often, overbearing) behavior may have been fueled by the fact that the adults I grew up with never really treated me like a child. My parents often say that they didn’t need to stay behind on the first day of pre-school because I was crying; in fact, my mom fondly recalls that she was crying because I dropped her hand like a hot potato when I saw all the toys in the classroom.

I was encouraged to speak my mind and having never been brought up to use traditional Filipino terms of politeness with people in my family, I always felt like the adults around me weren’t much older than I was, even when I was barely past their hip level.

That was what I was familiar with; that was what I knew. So you can imagine how frustrated I would be when this relatively liberal environment that fostered independence would be countered with a strict set of rules. As much as I saw myself as a mature adult, other people — especially my parents — didn’t always see it that way.

I would often bargain with and beg my parents for extended curfew hours or questionable hangout venues. Back then, I would think of how ridiculous they were being about restricting me from staying out past midnight. I mean, I was 16! I knew stuff!

Hate to let you down, but that didn’t really follow a juvenile delinquent phase. Like I said, I was too obsessed with the future; as much as I wanted to act out, I kept thinking of what would happen if my stupid acts of rebellion would end up as gossip fodder when I become some kind of celebrity someday. A future princess of England has a reputation to maintain, after all.

So I did my time during my years of house arrest with frequent parole (not that it was a bad place to be; there were a lot of great TV shows during my teenage years) and waited out for my good behavior to pay off so my parents could soon see that I was no longer a kid.

It took awhile, but eventually, they did. This sounds a little silly, but my turning point as my parents’ grown-up daughter wasn’t when my dad started asking me if I wanted wine with my meal during weekend family dinners or when I finished school and got a job. I have never felt more like a grown-up than when my parents began trusting me to drive a car, not only on my own, but also for other people — a list, I may add, that includes my moody little sister and my panicky grandma.

That is perhaps the easiest part of growing up in your parents’ eyes: being given so much more freedom and trust. Having a car to myself meant that I had free rein over where I got to go, what I got to do, and what time I could go home. It felt like getting an all-access pass to everything I had been denied when I was still a teenager. Oh, boy. It felt good.

I began to feel like the head cheerleader dating the hotshot jock, parading around the cafeteria. I became emboldened to be more candid than I already was with my parents, and I loved how my thoughts became viable considerations in serious family decisions. Best part was, I got to see a side of parents that was more comfortable and less restrained. It was the ultimate, figurative gesture of being asked to sit at the big kids’ table.

Looking back, I think it was real smart of my parents not to spoil me by allowing me to drive on my own when still in school. Trust me, the temptation to just drive a car whenever and wherever you want to doesn’t get any easier. But now I know that the temporary thrill of doing something behind their back isn’t worth risking the years of hard-earned trust between my parents and me.

Of course, I didn’t always feel that way. Back when I was younger, I would seethe when I’d recall an argument between my mom or dad that I would naturally lose because they wouldn’t let me get my way. Although I never had a wild child phase of my own, part of letting go of any angst or ill will towards your parents is a huge part of developing maturity.

I know it’s hella cheesy, but there were a lot of things that my parents did or said that I still don’t agree with, but I learned to forgive my parents for whatever wrongs they’ve done to me. My personal Kill Bill revenge plot is reserved for my grade school classmates.

Just kidding.

It’s also important to stop blaming you parents for whatever crappy decisions you’re starting to make as an adult. That achieves nothing except piss you off more and make your psychiatrist richer. Regardless of how “crappy” they must’ve been to you, there really is no point in being too hard on your parents. Plot twist: you didn’t make it any easier for them either.

What personally challenges me the most is getting rid of childhood habits that persist even now, in my 20s. I have to constantly remind myself that as much as I would love to hear my parents’ thoughts and opinions on my any personal decisions, I shouldn’t ask for their advice if I don’t want to hear it.

Truth be told, sometimes I do it because I seek a sign of their approval, but I’m an adult now. Unless I want to check if it’s okay for me to start dealing illegal narcotics as a sideline, then I’d like to believe that I’ve acquired enough wisdom to make grown-up and smart decisions.

It bears remembering, however, that when one decides to exact that much independence over your life, you can’t treat independence like an all-you-can-eat buffet. You can’t just continuously gorge on the bits that you like and skip the less appetizing stuff.

This is the part of growing up that I failed to see as a six-year-old in pigtails. My parents only started treating me like a grown-up when I acted like one. Sometimes that means having to contribute to household expenses and paying for your own phone bill. On other days, that means allowing your parents to see you as a kid. Sure, you’re not a kid. You’re their kid — in their hearts, at least.

It’s the price you pay for maturity, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay.