But How Will I Know if They're Aliens?

parenting wisdom

When I was much younger, there was a time when I was concerned my parents were aliens.

Photo by Bruce Warrington on Unsplash

They hadn’t done anything particularly out of the ordinary. Nothing out of this world, for sure. No space ships in the backyard, no green goo. Nothing cosmic or sinister or of the pull-off-the-skin-of-your-face-to-reveal-a-lizard variety. To the contrary, my parents were and are caring, good-humored, loving and attentive. A+ all around.  

My concern sprang from a general desire to have a contingency plan for all possible eventualities. That’s basically how I still am today. But I remember walking into the grocery store with my mom when I was six and thinking, “What if it’s all been a sham? What if they’re undercover? How would I know?”

I tumbled down that rabbit hole a good long way. If my parents were aliens, had they always been? Had there been a switcheroo at some point, and my real parents were locked away on a ship orbiting the moon? Why were the aliens interested in me? And if not me, then how many other kids had alien imposter parents?

You see how far this rabbit hole goes. Especially when you’re six.

Obviously, I couldn’t ask my maybe-alien parents to come clean. So, in the end, I made a brave choice. I decided to live in the mystery. After all, I reasoned, my parents—alien or not—were pretty loving, seemed to like me well enough, and I didn’t want for anything. Life was good.

So, I’d give them a pass. The benefit of the doubt.

And—to my knowledge—they’ve been human ever since.

My own two daughters get scared of a lot of things: the dark where potential monsters lurk, any distance between my wife and I and the two of them in a public space, “creepy eyes,” (as my eldest says), and a host of others fears—rational and less so.

And that’s why this terribly random memory from my own distant childhood has resurfaced. Because fear is real, even if it’s not rational. And our days are inevitably full of questions that have answers that are well out of reach.

But I come back to my own childhood conclusion: If there’s love, it’ll be alright. If the aliens love me, then we’ve got something good here.

And then I interrogate myself when those two little girls yell from upstairs about noises and nightmares and things that go bump bump splat in the night.

I ask myself: Am I responding with a love that dissipates those fears? That proves that, even if I am an undercover gremlin with a soggy nose and gnarly back, I’ve loved as best I can and those girls are better for it and it’s going to be alright because we’ve got something good here?

Love gets in the way of fear, I think. It makes itself a nuisance. Fear can’t get a good shot in, can’t land a punch. It’s still there, of course, but now it’s occupied. Distracted by love. Two burly strangers in a small room.

And love, somehow, insists that your craziest, out-of-this-world worry might not be as devastating as you thought. Because love cuts through that fear and sees you, smiles, shakes your hand, even as fear dances like a banshee in the background.

That’s God, right? That love? I think so.

And another thing:

• Want to hear what a group of college students thought of my dad jokes? Read my latest “Now Discern This” column over at Jesuits.org.

• Want to grab a copy of my book, Cannonball Moments: Telling Your Story, Deepening Your Faith? Go for it.