Diamondback Online - The University of Maryland's Independent Daily Student Newspaper

Issue date: 3/25/08 Section: Opinion

Rachel Hare

I was home for spring break not two hours before I received a frantic call from my cousin. The voice coming from the receiver was so full of desperation that I knew I had to help.

"We need to go out," she pleaded. "I've been at home all week. With my mother."

Enough said. I rushed to rescue my 19-year-old cousin from the throes of childhood revisited. We sought refuge at the one place reserved for the independent pursuits of adults to be: the movie theater.

For many college students, spring break provides a unique opportunity, a kind of once-in-a-lifetime experience. For one week, we are free to escape to the slopes of Colorado, the lights of Las Vegas or the sunny beaches of Florida, without the worries of schoolwork or the pestering of parents.

But for those of us carefree college kids who happen to be stuck at home for that week of fun and frivolity, the spring break forecast proves rather dreary.

Last week, I happened to be one of those unfortunate souls.

What began as a relaxing respite soon became a frightening walk down memory lane - a nightmarish trip back to dull high school evenings spent at home, restrictive curfews and meaningless arguments about laundry and cleanliness and money.

My brother, in all his wisdom, decided to skip out on our fun, old-fashioned family time last week and headed for Florida with some friends. I have yet to thank him for reminding me how much fun it is being the only child in the house.

As the only child, sitting down to dinner became something like appearing before the Supreme Court for a hearing. My parents seemed innocent enough sitting behind plates of spaghetti, but between forkfuls of pasta, they fired questions faster than Chris Matthews. "Are you studying?" "Do you keep in touch with your brother?" "Are you going to church?" "Do you have a boyfriend?" (That last one is my favorite, always asked with a failed attempt at nonchalance.)

Watching television with Mom and Dad also presented a challenge. The only show the three of us could agree on was Jeopardy!, which (I soon realized) we had to watch religiously, every day at 7 p.m. The 7:30 p.m. to 9 p.m. time slot proved a rather odd potpourri of home-makeover shows, classic boxing, local news and Everybody Loves Raymond reruns. After that, I surfed listlessly through the channels while Dad snored in the recliner and Mom dozed behind the camouflage of a newspaper.

It was also an unusual change to have my parents wondering where I was all the time. I swear, I don't know how I get along at college without them. They were always waiting for me to get into an accident of some kind. If I drove anywhere, I had to call them. If I went horseback riding, I had to take a friend. I couldn't even shower without someone knocking on the bathroom door asking whether I just dropped the shampoo or if I'd fallen and broken my neck.

But somewhere, between the arguments about the piled-up laundry on my bed (If my mother washes it, I can at least put it away!) and the reprimands about the correct temperature setting for the thermostat (My father is not paying to heat the whole neighborhood!), I was reminded of how much fun it is being home.

My Dad and I cheered Muhammad Ali on (for about the fiftieth time) to his devastating victory over George Foreman in 1974. My Mom and I recited (for about the fiftieth time) all the words to Anne of Green Gables and Pride and Prejudice.

On Easter Sunday, my brother was home, and the family was all together again. And in the midst of schoolwork, housework, jobs and careers, the four of us sat down to Easter dinner, as we have for as long as I can remember. No inquisitions, no television, no lectures, no arguments … and no serenity either.

But we're a family, and we make it work. Because that's what families do.

I swear, I don't know how I get along at college without them.

Rachel Hare is a sophomore French and journalism major. She can be reached at rhare1@umd.edu.

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