Reaching 28, I have learned to appreciate the little things in life such as home cooked meals, new clothes, new shoes, the value of a dollar, education, and family. Now, I’m sure there is more but those are the things I can name off the top of my head. When I mean family, I’m talking about my parents. My brother and I have always been close (that’s another post, FORESHADOWING!) but I started to appreciate my parents later in life.

My mom and I fought every. Single. Day. We fought even more during my high school days. Our fights consisted of my wardrobe. Before you start picturing the stereotypical outfit with my boobs, belly, and ass showing, let me explain. I was never into fashion (every time my husband asks, “Does this look good,” I just give a blank stare because I have matched pink and orange together before) and, of course, leaned towards the “dark side”. Black evvvveerrryyyyythiiiiinnnnng was my style of choice.
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My mom and my dadda.

Boyish clothes were my go-to suggestion. My mom would constantly want me to wear skirts, dresses, heels, nail polish (although, we did agree on keeping my nails, clean, trimmed, and painted).
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Look at that face. It just screams, “I hate everything about this day.”

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I hated girly dresses even when I was too young to realize it was called a “dress”.

I fought tooth and nail not to wear dresses… until she’d beat me into a dress. Now, before you say, “Oh my God, noooo…”
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STOP. What Americans call “child abuse”, Hispanics call “discipline” or “ahorra, vas a ver!”
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courtesy of Google.com

It wasn’t until later and I mean LATER in life (early 20s) when I started thinking maybe she isn’t as crazy as I make her seem. I mean, my mom is bat shit insane as every other woman but she means well. She was there when my heart was broken for the first time, came home from work every single day and cooked meals from scratch (she still does this for my dad), took care of me when I had the sniffles, let me stay home when I wasn’t feeling well, everything a good mother should do. She always put her kids first, pets second, and my dad last lol but she always took very good care of her family without a single complaint (my dad recently broke his jaw and had his mouth wired shut. My mom made him shakes, smoothies, cream everything you can make creams of so he ate, bathed him, cleaned his stitches, and only communicated with him through pen and paper for about 5 weeks). The way to describe my relationship with my mom would be the Disney movie Brave. Constantly trying to make me into a lady of society and not appreciating her until later on.
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My mom and I on Thanksgiving 2013.

One of my earliest memories of my dad was on a Friday or Saturday night. My brother and I were on our bedroom floor drawing. We were wee kids at that time. I couldn’t have been older than 8 years old. My dad was having a few beers as he normally did to unwind from a week of work and he sat down with us and within 15 minutes, sketched an entire face of a singer he enjoyed. It was perfect. My brother and I looked at each other and couldn’t believe we had wasted about an hour trying to draw X-men characters while my dad, plastered from beers, effortlessly and flawlessly, free hand drew a face.
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courtesy of quickmeme.com

My dad has always been a quiet man and it wasn’t until my last two years of college when I started to see my dad as a friend rather than a scary father figure. I was able to talk to him, open up to him, share his insights and thoughts. I discovered we had a lot in common: drawing, singing, the arts, political views, religion, music, I can go on but it’ll be way too much.
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Safety first!

I also learned the value of a dollar because of him. When I moved out and had to start buying my own things, I never realized how much my dad spent just on me, not including for my brother, himself, my mom, our pets, and things we all needed as a whole. My dad made a lot of sacrifices for us and now I can say, I really love our conversations…
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My dadda on Thanksgiving 2013.

and how did I repay him? I got married and moved away! Broke his heart D:
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My dadda and father in law (right).

Adoptive parents really need a lot of credit, especially the ones who, sadly, cannot conceive. They were so determined to have children (despite the fact their bodies were just not cooperating) that they decided,  “Hey, we still want to put our lives on pause just to raise another human being with love,” and BAM! You were adopted. Think about it, science, God, or whoever you believe in, were throwing signs and obstacles to your adoptive parents’ way and they still defied the odds and adopted a child to raise as their own. Just appreciate them. Most parents had little “happy accidents” and thought, “-sigh- well, we might as well have a baby,” but no, your adoptive parents WANTED YOU, planned you, prepared for years for you, and adoption isn’t a 1, 2, 3 process. That shit takes some time, months! They love you that much that they could have said, “Fuck it, let’s live our lives without children and have sex in any room without having to check on kids,” and be at peace, travel, and be comfortable but no, they love you that much to sacrifice that freedom to raise you.

All in all, just respect your parents and give them a break. They gave you life, they care for you, they still put up with your dumbass decisions, and will probably be the only people who will you love unconditionally (besides grandparents). Just stop being assholes to them and remember all they have done for you.

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