Let me just start by saying: I love my parents. I really do! They rearrange work meetings, battle I-90 traffic from Seattle to Bellevue like it’s a competitive sport, and eat entire meals in the car just to make it to drop-off/pickup/choir/violin/swim/dance/guitar presentations or soccer matches.
Honorable mention to the Saturdays where they roll out of bed at 5 a.m. to get me to my diving lessons in Mukilteo by 6 a.m., juggling two pots of coffee, two oxygen tanks rolling in sync in the back seat, and then sitting in foldable chairs for the next four hours with Netflix on their phones while I accidentally flip starfish with my rubber fins.
They are clearly very supportive and most of the time, heroic even.
However, they are parents, and naturally, embarrassing us is just part of the job. My brother and I have developed three essential rules for surviving high school with our parents. Think of them as field guidelines, like tide pool safety, but for social survival.
Rule #1: Be Invisible During School Drop-Off
This rule is simple and elegant; however, my mom does not follow it. Her version of “invisible” is blasting Taylor Swift at full volume and singing into an imaginary microphone, like she is Taylor herself. Then, and this is the worst part, she rolls down the car’s window and yells, “LOVE YOU, BABIES, HAVE A GREAT DAY!”
Yep, “babies”!
I sprint out of the car like I’m escaping a kidnapping. My brother just shakes his head and says, “Minus aura.” Drop-offs should be quiet. It should look like we came in on an invisible and silent cloud, the same one picking us up at the end of the day.
Rule #2: Do Not Engage with Other Parents at School Events
This is for my dad. He is terrible with names, faces, and context clues, so you will probably find him engaging with “John” (who’s actually Michael). Poor “John” has no clue who my dad is, looks at him nodding politely, trying to figure out if my dad is delusional or if he needs to call the authorities.
My mom’s version of this disaster is the “group photo ambush.” She will whip out her phone and announce, “Everybody, look at Bella’s mom!” School events should be painless; you walk in, say “Hi, how are you?” and walk out. No one gets hurt.
Rule #3: Don’t Look Clueless in Curriculum Night
Curriculum night is not the problem. My teachers are amazing. The layout is the problem: one tight hallway with lurking “Hallway Braggers.”
All parents are carried along like one big wave, shoulder to shoulder, breathing only occasionally when they find the right classroom to get in. Hallway Braggers see the weaknesses, spot my parents, and attack!
“Hi, how is Bella doing?”
“She’s great, excited for summer, you know, to eat, sleep, watch movies … how about your kid?” my poor, unsuspecting parents answer. Boom!! This is when the Hallway Bragger detonates.
Suddenly, we are hearing about their kid who plays violin while juggling tennis balls, speaks German backward, won the national robotics championship, and is Harvard-bound for pre-med-engineering, while also spending the summer in Oxford to research the cure for low IQ.
My parents smile politely, but I see their parental self-esteem start dropping. They wonder if I should have been in circus school to master plate-spinning, or added a third language so I could identify algae samples faster while sloshing around in muddy boots. Meanwhile, I am standing there thinking:
I am not a Harvard-Oxford-juggling prodigy. I go tide pooling. I talk to children about sea otters at the Seattle Aquarium. I slip on rocks. I really want to pursue marine biology.
And my parents know that, and somehow, I’m still the winner in their eyes. They just let me be exactly who I am. This is my favorite part.
Despite the embarrassment, my parents are always there for me. Their love also arrives loudly, from Taylor Swift sing-alongs during drop‑offs to oxygen tanks clanking around in the backseat at 6 a.m. This is why I know I am lucky, because this is the ecosystem I grew up in.
