Baby, I'm amazed

I'm home today, sequestered by the first real snow storm of the season, and of the year.  We've had other, smaller storms, but this one is for real.  Last night was cold and blustery with sideways blowing snow.  Today is calm and sunny and sparkling.  It's always such an amazing, magical time of the year.  Things are quiet and peaceful, and, for me, it's a time of thought and introspection.  Just what I need, more introspection.

So, last night I was holed up in my living room, bundled in my Snuggie, cats on my lap, watching TV.  An ad came on for Disney World.  Parents, a mom and a dad, surprised their kids, a little boy and a little girl, with a Christmas Miracle.  We're going to Disney World!  Is it horrible of me to hate them?  Perfect little kids in their perfect little house with their perfect parents.  Hate. Them.  I steamed as I watched the kids jump with delight, mom crying tears of joy, dad getting it all on video so they can watch it again and again and again.  Yup.  Hate. Them.

But why?  Why does this commercial make me angry?  Because it's not real?  Because no one is that perfect?  Or, is it because there really are families that are that perfect? 

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with reruns of the Brady Bunch.  Again, perfect freakin' family.  In reality, Dad's gay, Greg is having sex with step-sister Marsha, Cindy's on drugs.  But in TV land, life was awesome, and I was so darn jealous!

So, it is jealousy that makes me so angry at those perfect little snotty kids in the Disney commercial?  Probably.  I'm not jealous from the adult's perspective, though, I'm jealous from the kids' perspective.  I want to be that little girl.  I want to be the one jumping up and down, mom crying tears of joy, Dad taping...  I want to be that family, I want to be that kid.  But I'm 44.  Now that's just weird.  Then it hit me...

Adults are just fucked up kids that got old.  We're all bearing our crosses, dragging along our baggage, blaming our parents, resenting our lives.  Adults "fix" their own broken childhoods by giving their kids the things they wanted, being the "best" moms and dads, and giving their children the things they wished they'd had.  It's like kids are generational duct tape, patching holes, putting broken pieces back together.  We fix ourselves by having kids.  Now, I know that most people are good parents, they listen to their kids, they pay attention, and, for the most part, they mean well.  But I don't have kids, so I can only judge others'.  I'm good at judging others. 

But, my epiphany last night....  I don't have kids.  I'm still broken.  I don't have that duct tape that other adults have, so I'm still dragging around that baggage that I've had since my own dysfunctional childhood.  I don't have that next generation that I can dote on, that I can take to Disney, in order to fix my own feelings of "my parents never did that..."  I don't have nieces or nephews, and my oldest and dearest friends don't have kids either.  And Disney won't let me bring my cats.  I'm screwed.

I don't regret my decision to not have kids, I like my life.  I enjoy other people's kids, and then they go home.  I'm living the life of a grandmother!  Sour grapes?  Perhaps. 

I don't know what I'm going to do with this new-found clarity.  At 44, I'm certainly not going to be birthing any babies.  But, the good news....  There's a gorgeous layer of 10 inches of freshly fallen snow to keep me sequestered for another day or two, so I have plenty of time for introspection.