My mother deserves a medal. Whenever she gets on my nerves and I feel the need to complain, I remind myself that she went through absolute HELL for me. She wasted eleven years of her life trying to have kids, then when she did, it turned out that me and my brothers were awkward little buggers who wanted to see daylight as soon as possible. So she had to lie in a hospital bed, unable to sit up or even MOVE for three damn months. She almost died, got post-natal depression and then had to raise us on her own when she and dad split up. How she didn't go off the deep end, I'll never know, yet she STILL managed to raise us as well-adjusted, well-behaved kids. Even if she does panic if I so much as get a paper-cut.
My dad on the other hand... I know he loves me - in fact, he's always complaining that we don't get enough time together, but quite frankly, he's thick. Thick in the sense that no matter how many times I tell him, he still thinks he's got better ideas for my life. So you want to be a teacher? Nah, the army's more worthwhile. Get rid of those books and put down your violin and play football instead. Get a tan, go blonde, lose weight, why don't you go out and get drunk and pull guys like the other girls? (yes, really.) If I didn't know better, I'd think he wanted me to be a chavvy, alcoholic slut. Daft git.
Thankfully, his mum is a little spitfire, and totally awesome. Your stereotypical sweet little granny (and I mean little, she's about four foot nothing) going schizo every time my dad tries to criticise me, complete with slaps to wherever she can reach, is totally worth the aggravation. And my grandad is like a sniper when it comes to sarcasm, and for a guy with only one working limb, he gives the best bear hugs. Old people rule.