The parental unit

The relationship between kids and their parents is often a tumultuous one; this statement probably isn't much of a shock to you, since children have been resenting their authorities since they drew the wrong sort of cave art:
"Dad, I wanna draw a mammoth; don't tell me what to do!"
"And I want a million throwing spears. We don't always get our wildest dreams."
"I can't draw a stupid monkey."
"Go to your cave corner, son!"
And so on. The basic principle is the same, only with more things that beep to take away from children. I've been lucky enough to get along with my parents, although it seemed a horrible coincidence that they went to extra lengths to embarrass me through the ages of twelve to fifteen. Imagine that--all I asked for was that they don't talk, breathe, or walk into my room and burst into folk-like versions of "Girl Power." But even in my short rebellion phase, I was led by the guiding principle that I loved these determined--albeit eccentric--people, and that they were the deciders. And as long as I was living under their roof, eating their food, and taking all their coffee, they always would be.
What often gets overlooked, however, is the relationship between adults and their parents. I've heard stories of overbearing parents, and I'm witnessing the "sandwich generation" as my grandparents fall into shaky health. But the transition between being taken care of to being the caretakers themselves seems invisible; it's as though childhood is sidewalk chalk that never quite rubs off, and then a rainstorm sneaks through the night, and poof--it's gone.
As an incoming college freshman, I take independence for granted. It's my life--I should be able to take the classes I want, eat the food I want, and have the stories of regret where I look at my kids and say "your mother was an idiot. Don't you ever do that in college." Yet my father does not take for granted the tuition bill that arrives at his house every semester. And so begins the battle between college provider and college participator. Part of it is fierce protection and love, but that's difficult to see in the moment, when the check-in guide at advising day asks for your name, and your parent answers for you. The horrors! Taking two honors courses in four years was a moment of pride; now with a few thousand dollars on the line, it's vital I take seven. It's as though we're slipping backwards in time. I was so used to not being nagged in high school, and having a dad who was the perfect balance of being there for me but not butting into my life, that this new dynamic seemed a horrible injustice--suddenly I was being told what classes to take, who to talk to, and that nothing good ever happens after midnight. This being said to the girl who considers it a wild night if she goes to bed at 11:00.
I can't wrap this up with a definitive realization. I'm still unsure about this new role of parent/child, although I accept that even though I'm officially an adult, my parents have more years of being one, so they have much more to back up their advice on. I may be frustrated by this (very minor) case of helicopter parent, but I know it comes from my dad wanting me to have the most enriching four years of college. So there may be times when I have to say "I love you, but I'd rather fall on my face and learn from my mistakes than get special treatment from the 'inside' of the college system." But there will also be days when all I want is for him to make me a grilled cheese sandwich and let me cry on his shoulder. Because the independent, grownup college freshman is still clueless. I may not be blinded by the assumption that my parents are all-knowing anymore, but they do know a heck of a lot more than me. So perhaps I should ask them a thing or two, without acting like they've thrown a snake in my face.