I'll admit that I still hold a couple of grudges against my parents for the way they raised me. I think they made some spectacular blunders, possibly scarring me for life.
One quick example, brought to mind by the recent BCC discussion of evil spirits and possession, happened when I was just 8 or 9. I was watching some television show by myself (it was a weekly show like The Twilight Zone, that had a different scary story each week) which featured a young boy being attacked by his grandmother, who was a witch. It scared the daylights out of me, and I went to my parents to comfort me (and possibly let me sleep in their bed). I remember very clearly that my father said to me, "You know, the scary thing about these stories is that there actually are witches and demons out there." That's just wrong on so many levels that I don't even know where to begin.
That, obviously, is just the tip of the iceberg of my parental complaints. I have a ton more. However, as I was reading Susan M's post about how she met her husband at a Cure concert, I couldn't help remembering my first concert ever.
I was fifteen and had just gotten into the Cure. They were coming to a nearby town (located about an hour away) and I really wanted to go. I had never been to a concert before. Obviously, I couldn't drive there, so the only solution was for my Dad to drive me. My older sister came along too, even though her musical taste ran more towards Kip Winger and Great White. My Dad dropped us off at the concert and drove to a deserted parking lot where he read the scriptures under the streetlights for a couple hours until it was time to pick up my sister and me from the concert.
Somehow, the image of him straining to read his giant quad in some strange, empty parking lot at night, just so I could go to a concert, chokes me up. It's a little early for Father's Day, but let me just say, thanks Dad. You're alright.