An Ode To Working Parents & Their Retirement

During all the years I lived in my parents’ home, we ate supper together every night without fail. That was the way. At the table. Seated as four. As a unit. As a family. Together. Same chairs. Same arrangement. Same faces. Same routine. They saw to this. They saw that their son and daughter had a meal prepared, cooked, and presented each night, steady and true. They instilled this structure and certainty. They created this predictable pattern. They cooked up a big helping of belief in reliability every night. I was never left feeling empty or in need of more. When I pushed my chair away from the dining room table and set about washing the dirty dishes one by one by hand, I did so with a belly that was full. That was due to their hard work.

During all the years I lived in my parents’ home, they woke each morning, and off they went to face a full day of responsibilities at jobs I’m certain they wouldn’t have chosen if living in a perfect world. Day in, day out. Year in, year out. Decade after decade. Labor and toil for eight hours at the least but usually longer. When they returned home, they did what good parents do: tend to their children with a purpose. See to their needs. Ease their pain. Relive their days. Prepare them. Toughen them. Fuel them. Inspire them. Correct them. Humble them if necessary. Build them up if  broken down. They did all without a reward waiting on the other side. All without expectations of repayment. All without complaints or dissatisfaction hanging in the air.

During all the years I lived in my parents’ home, I watched them grow up practically at the same time I was. At just 17 and 18, they were mere children in charge of children, responsible for shaping and defining lives. They forged paths they’d never been down. They directed traffic they never saw coming. They were quick to deal out punishment, but quicker to forgive and forget the transgressions that brought it on. They disciplined with resolve but also with a purpose. They demanded but did it responsibly. They thickened my skin. They opened my eyes. They insisted I do for myself. They hung the importance of owning a worth ethic high above the mantel. With few resources, little guidance, and all the fright and uncertainty that youth is apt to pour down the throat and make your swallow, they did what good parents do: provide.

During all the years I lived in my parents’ home, they continually taught skills that would keep me standing later. To finish a job started. To compete. To battle. To seek answers. To respect a dollar earned. They taught me to cook. They insisted that I clean. They taught me to sew. They insisted I wash my own clothes. They taught me how to seek employment. They insisted I get a job. They taught me to value my possessions. They insisted I clean up my own messes. They taught me about self-worth. They insisted I show respect. They taught me appreciation. They insisted I pitch in without being asked. They did what good parents do: teach their children to be self-sufficient.  

Upon my parents’ retirement, upon their well-deserved rest, upon their days ahead filled with freedom and choices, they should know their efforts in the past didn’t go unnoticed. Their work wasn't unappreciated. They should know the hours and days and years of sacrifice weren't made without tremendous gratitude. They should know I learned well in my surroundings, and I would not change a thing.