In general, I think my parents did a pretty bang up job of raising us kids. (Please note, just because I said that, I haven't given up my right to blame my parents for everything that is wrong with me.)
I mean, they raised six kids, none of us have been in jail (as far as I know), and now that K-poo has a job again, we're all gainfully employed. Granted, their standards got more relaxed as the years went by, and Karen just skated through childhood to the extent that she didn't know how to weed when she stayed here, but like I said, we all turned out more or less okay.
However, I have one big bone to pick with my parents -- their willful mispronunciation of all French words.
It turns out that the damned elephant isn't called "BA-bar", he's called "Buh-BAR". He could leave the Louvre (and don't think I'm not grateful that I don't remember how that word was mangled) and people could say "Buh-bye Buh-BAR".
One of our favorite pastimes was playing the classic French road rage game, "Milly Bornz". Yes, three distinct syllables, with a sibilant ending, not to be confused with one of my mother's relatives. "Mille Bornes" was full of words to butcher, although I do believe we pronounced "coup ferre" somewhat correctly. Maybe not, though.
As a result of this anti-Gallic upbringing, I have been forced to avoid many odd foods for fear of having to order them out loud. I am limited to picking red or white wine, and a coup d'etat would have to be reported by somebody else.
Anyways, all I have to say is this: you'll have to pardon my French.