In the Shadow of Their Love… and Their Weird Habits

Growing up with my parents was like living in a sitcom — only without the laugh track and with way more leftovers. Our house was filled with warmth, loud opinions, and some of the strangest habits known to suburban parenting. Looking back, I realize how deeply I lived in the shadow of their love — and their wonderfully weird ways of showing it.

Let’s start with Mom. She’s the kind of woman who labels every single item in the fridge, including a jug of water that simply says, “WATER (Cold).” She believes in expiration dates like some people believe in horoscopes — deeply, irrationally, and with daily consultation.

One time, I tried to throw away a jar of mustard that had expired two months prior.

She snatched it out of the trash like I had tossed out a family heirloom.

“That’s best by, not die immediately after,” she snapped, and placed it back on the fridge shelf like a sacred relic.

Mom also had a habit of vacuuming at 7 a.m. on Saturdays. Her logic? “It’s the only time everyone’s home, so I know you’re not lost somewhere.” In her world, the sound of a vacuum was both a cleaning strategy and a roll call.

Then there’s Dad, a man powered by coffee, dad jokes, and an unshakable belief that duct tape can fix anything — including relationships.

He once fixed a leaky pipe under the sink with duct tape and a zip tie. When I asked if it was safe, he said, “The Romans used aqueducts. We use duct tape. It’s basically the same thing.”

Dad also refused to buy new socks. He believed socks didn’t need to match, only to exist. I grew up seeing him wear one black and one brown sock to church. “They’re both feet,” he’d shrug. “God won’t mind.”

But for all their quirks, their love was loud, present, and always, always dependable.

They never missed a school event — even the painfully awkward middle school talent show where I sang an off-key version of a Taylor Swift song while playing the ukulele I barely knew how to tune.

Dad cried. Mom clapped louder than anyone and yelled, “That’s my baby!”

I wanted to disappear. Now, I wouldn’t trade that memory for anything.

Their weirdness also came with wisdom — the kind you only understand in hindsight. Like how Mom insisted we all eat dinner together, no phones allowed. At the time, I hated being pulled away from my screen. Now, I realize she was making space for conversation, laughter, and the occasional food fight.

Or how Dad insisted I learn to change a tire before I got my driver’s license. I rolled my eyes then. But two years later, when I was stranded in the rain with a flat tire and no cell signal, I could hear his voice in my head: “Lefty loosey, righty tighty. And don’t forget the emergency brake.”

Their weird habits weren’t just quirks — they were lessons in disguise.

They taught me resilience, like when they both worked overtime but still made it to my science fair.

They taught me loyalty, by showing up for each other in small ways — Dad making Mom tea before bed, Mom reminding him gently to check his blood pressure.

They taught me that being weird wasn’t something to hide — it was something to embrace.

Now, I catch myself doing the things I used to mock. I label my leftovers. I vacuum when I’m anxious. I tell horrible puns without shame. And every time I do, I smile, because I know I’m still standing in the shadow of their love — and yes, their weird habits too.

In the end, their quirks didn’t just shape my childhood — they shaped who I am. They didn’t raise me perfectly. But they raised me right.

And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.