In 1982, my parents showed up at my senior prom. With no fair warning.  If I had been a normal teenager, one who rolled her eyes at every word uttered by her mother, one who bucked every rule her father put forth, I might have been surprised.  Even angry.

But I wasn’t.  I found out they were there because a group of my friends came rushing up to me on the dance floor, mid-evening, and breathlessly announced:  “Your Mom and Dad are here!”

Any other kid would have melted into the scenery, prayed for instant death. But because my parents are EdandPam (and yes, that is one word), I grabbed my date by the hand and yanked him through the restaurant.  My parents are here! Let’s get this party started!

My mom and dad were the parents who could be your very best friends and still maintain authority.  My dad would serve you a beer but wouldn’t let you drive home if his life depended on it.  They were fun, crazy, spontaneous.  Loved, deeply loved. By everyone.

I am forty eight years old now.  I live in suburban America, in a wonderful neighborhood, and I have amazing friends who are more family to me than I have ever known.  Funny thing is, my parents were in town tonight, and I was suddenly second string. Because nothing has changed.  They are still EdandPam, and everyone I  know feels lucky to know them.

My dad brought gifts for my girlfriends. My girlfriends talked knitting with my mother, because, well, I don’t.  My guy friends talked guy stuff with my dad.

And, as much as I did when I was seventeen, at the Waldorf Astoria hotel, proudly showing off my parents at my senior prom, I felt proud tonight.

They are still one of the best things about me.