Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah

As represented in the lovely song Hello Mother, Hello Father, by a poor little camp-goer, parents are the safe-haven, the harbor, the sea of tranquility that storm-drenched children oft turn towards when they are in dire straights. Be it during the time of diapers, or the era of teen angst, whenever life seems a bit too daunting, too confusing, too plain hard, it is an instinctive reaction to exclaim "take me home, oh muddah, faddah." Motherhood is characterized by love and affection, fatherhood by protection, and both are comfortable. However, that is not to say that to love your parents is to agree with them, for that is as much the case as the sky is raining Jane Austen novels (on the godly day that this is true, disregard this horridly inaccurate attempt at a witty comparison). This opposition to a parental belief is not always an attempt at rebellion, at provocation, nor an embodiment of the modern ingrate, but rather a natural progression of establishing an identity separate from those once "such a strong father [or mother]," as Manning stated. In order to mature, ideas must be contemplated alone, and the "default setting" is sometimes to take the opposite view from those closest. That, such a sprightly adolescent may muse, "that is me showing the man." Nevertheless, be you virtually a carbon copy of dearest mother, or nothing like that old brute that is your father, you are more similar than you care to believe. In some manner or the other, you are a product, the addition of m&d, and you are shaped by nature and nurture by these tremendous beings that made you, you.