Raised on a Dog Leash

Just in: attempting to do a load of laundry is just a stressful as trying to stop the war in Iraq.

In the sensible world, this isn’t the case. If President Obama had the choice between doing a load a laundry or trying to stop the war in Iraq, I’m pretty sure he’d pick the latter.

But in my case, my roommate freshman year thought that every task she had to do without the assistance from her mother was like trying to stop global warming— sheer impossible. It was second nature to me to have to do my own laundry, make my own living, do my own homework. My parents raised me to be self-reliant so I didn’t know anything different…until college that is.

I can remember it now. Move in day freshman year, each girl was nervous as can be, yet sizing each other up to see which would be their lucky roommate. You’d pass a gothic girl and be like “ oh God, I’ll go to church for the whole year as long as you don’t put me with her” or you pass a girl who looked like she didn’t know what a shower was and tell God you’d feed the hungry each week if he could spare you this once.

When I got to my third floor room I was able to breathe a sigh of relief. There stood a sweet and outgoing girl who I knew I’d click with instantly. In my head, I was thanking God a thousand times over, but may have said one too many prayers. When my roommate’s parents said their final good-byes, I was trying to reverse every thankful prayer I had said. A girl I thought was so vivacious and outgoing turned into the biggest basket case I had ever met. I’d call my mom several times a day, “Mom, what do I do? I can’t stop making her cry.”

“Now, now,” my mom would reply. “It’ can’t be so bad. Just be patient.”

“Mom, I suggested she do some laundry to take her mind off of home, but when she went to do her laundry, she just burst into tears from the mounds of stress to try to fathom doing it without her mom.”

This, my friends, is a severe case of what I’d like to call disfunctionitis. In laments terms, it’s where the parents caudle their child too long, to the point that they can’t fend for his or her self.

It’s funny to see how times have drastically changed. My mother is the first of five and growing up she was like the second mother around the house. From middle school on, she helped her mom cook, clean, iron…all the above. And today, most children don’t know the cardinal rule of washing laundry: never mix your whites and reds or you will end up with pinks.

I digress.

I think it’s great that parents are there for their kids to guide them through life, but they’ve got to know the difference between guiding and smothering. Guiding is when you walk down a path side by side, there to pick up your kid when he or she hits a bump or two. Smothering is like the poor kid whose parent buys a “dog leash” to walk him or her around. They’re able to control the distance their child goes, and is able to reel him or her back in when they don’t like what’s going on.

Ok, so I gave my roommate the benefit of the doubt. “She’s just really homesick,” I’d tell myself. Until she uttered this question: “Kristina, can you help me make a boxed cake?”

A BOXED cake? My blind grandmother can make a boxed cake. That’s the moment I realized my roommate was raised on a dog leash.