19 Reasons Why It's All My Fault

Blame is so convenient. It eases any sense of guilt, obliterates the necessity for reparations and absolves all potential sins. Blame insinuates Fault; in fact the two are symbiotic. I consider myself a connoisseur of blame; both in casting it and accepting it. And since becoming a parent, well, let's just say I am the cleaner fish to Blame's Great White Shark. And, since becoming the parent of teenagers, well, there is nothing for which I am not to blame.

So here are the 19 reasons why it's all my fault.

1. I'm a mother

2. I know nothing

3. They know everything

4. I was raised Catholic

5. I do not read thoughts

6. I walked in the room

7. I should have known there would be traffic

8. They're 'just a kid'

9. I push them too hard

10. I don't push them enough

11. I got the wrong toothpaste

12. I should have known they were in a bad mood

13. I didn't sign the permission slip at the bottom of their backpack

14. I should have checked their pockets for pens before doing the laundry

15. I didn't wake them up a fifth time

16. Because the bacon is too crispy

17. Because the bacon is too chewy

18. Because Nike Elite socks aren't the thing anymore

19. Because I have a pulse and I'm not them

It is always someone else's fault because admitting fault is admitting fallibility and fallibility is not an option when you're a teenager. Not because they think they are infallible, it is because they know how fallible they are. And that, my friends, is a fragility most of us still cannot bear. So much feels wrong to them that the relief of placing rather than accepting blame is the very definition of a coping mechanism.

So, I am happy to accept the occasional irrational blame to ease the yuck that is teenager-dom as long as I don't get caught in the Catch 22 of absolving them of accepting responsibility and reconciling with their fallibility.

Ok, now my brain hurts. This is like parental calculus. Know what they sub-textually need and also know what they actually need regardless of popularity. It's like the SAT's all over, eliminate the obvious and then guess. There's always a 50/50 chance I could be right; and there's a 100% chance it will all be my fault.

Car Talk

I spend a lot of time in the car. Blessing and Curse duke it out for shotgun everyday. Somedays I spend up to three hours cumulatively in the car per day. That's a lot of time to think and play out imagined, though possible, scenarios both in my head and out loud.

I listen to music, which often becomes the soundtrack to the trailer of the movie my life could have been. Sometimes the music acts as an accelerant fanning the flames of any emotional spark. Sometimes the music provides inspiration for my next great idea which turns into reality the aforementioned movie of what my life should be. Sometimes the music is all boring and makes me listen to the news.

My main activity in the car, however is either gaining perspective or distorting proportional response; sometimes in the same ride. Three days a week I have an hour commute to work. This commute begins after I drop Teenager #1 off at school. The quality of that five minute ride usually determines the course of the following hour commute. There are usually two responses once Teenager #1 leaves the car:

• "Well that went well. Good parenting this morning Mary; he's a great kid."
• "Have a great day ass hole."

And then the hour begins. 

Minutes 1-5: Play out what I really wanted to say had I been strong enough or foolish enough. Remind Teenager #1 about how he really knows nothing and how dare he talk to me that way, and he should get down on his knees and thank all who can be thanked for all I do for him, and does he have any idea how much I have sacrificed day in and day out, and he better find his own way home today because he doesn't deserve to have me drive him anywhere, and it is not my fault that I didn't anticipate that the breakfast he loved yesterday would be the one he loathed today.

Minute 6: Tear up. Breathe. Tear up. Change radio station.

Minutes 7-9: Listen to traffic report. Find least offensive morning talk/pop station as a distraction.

Minutes 10-14: Call husband in superficial attempt at logistical briefing and clarification: who's picking up who? Did you fill the dog's water dish? Is there any milk left? This line of questioning quickly gives way to the real reason for my call which is to passive aggressively share my morning's stress by reminding him how much easier he has it by getting to drive Teenager #2 to school; because we like to hurt and hate the ones we love rather than feel our own pain. Nine times out of ten he doesn't pick up because he's smart, or his ringer is off, or he is being a responsible driver in contrast to me, and I contemplate leaving a text until the morning DJ introduces the next scintillating segment "five scents that drive a man wild-they're not what you think" inviting us to call or text in our response, but remember "don't text and drive." So I don't, because I'm a good girl.

Minutes 15-28: I plug in my phone and listen to my own music. Depending on how the shuffle goes I either formulate a better response to Teenager #1's behavior this morning which balances empathy, respect and appropriate limits and consequences; or I write my own one-act play of how things will go when I see him later in the day. This play often includes poignant pauses filled with subtext, and, eventually, a contrite child who helps me bring in the groceries without being asked.

Minutes 29-39: My mind moves to work. What am I teaching today? Who am I teaching today? Am I prepared for that meeting? How do I stay positive? What am I doing with my life? Could I earn more working at the Gap? How hard could it be to publish a book? I'm sure I could write a screenplay. What if I turned my blog into a one-woman show? I'll start selling my knitting on Etsy. Yes that will definitely pay the bills and satisfy my soul.

Minutes 40-47: I sit in a long line at the left turn signal and check my emails when traffic isn't moving because I remember that DJ's wise words. I switch back to the radio. Shockingly they are still talking about scent # 4, bacon.

Minute 47-48: I think about what I will eat next. I wish it was bacon. It will probably be my granola bar. Why wait. I eat it now. I resent it for not being bacon.

Minutes 48-54: I hate all other drivers and begin to panic that I will be late for my first class. My panic leads to blaming Teenager #1 for slowing down every time I said I need to get to work by 8:15. 

Minute 54: I marvel at my martyrdom.

Minute 55: I am stopped by diligent suburban crossing guard and watch children crossing street on their way to school. I wish my kids could walk to school. Then life would be idyllic like it was in the 50's. Oh, wait, Mad Men. I watch the innocence of this moment and either get over myself or resent the contrast.

Minutes 56-58: I ask myself again who authorized other drivers to be on the road right now.

Minute 59: I rush back to the parked car to retrieve my Diet Coke because survival tools are survival tools.

Minute 60: Breathe. Tear-up. Breathe. Teach.

And of course the act of action clears my head and reboots my hard drive and all is possible once again.

All this time in the car alone with my head and heart alternates between being therapeutic and being, well, the building blocks to so many bad decisions. I'm sure guided meditation or audiobooks or even NPR is the easy answer to a more consistently successful commute. Ultimately, however, this time gains me the figurative and very literal distance that I sometimes need from all things familial. It is captive time alone that helps me process life. One hour does not always end with a tidy epiphany, it usually evolves into dust settling which makes some things stand out in relief, covers others up and leaves others looking unchanged. It is time that has been bequeathed to my by circumstance. I do not always see it as such, and often squander the opportunity it presents. But it gives me the chance to be every part of me there is; the good, the bad, the ugly, the weird, the wise, the deluded and so on. 

And the only guarantee I can offer, is that I always signal before I change lanes.

You're Not A Shitty Parent

Sometimes I don't like being a mother.

Happy Mother's Day, am I right?

It's true though; and saying it stirs an absolute purity of relief and shame. And the very real fear of the ultimate jinx, that I have doomed my family for all eternity. A tiki doll from which there is no escape Greg Brady.

Still, I'm saying it, because I am certain that I am not the only one who feels it. And it doesn't make me a shitty parent.

So let's break this down.

First, there's the logistics. The constant driving, food prep, restocking of supplies, laundry, last minute paperwork (sports' registration, permission slips, school activity t-shirt acquisition, etc.), haircuts, birthday gift for someone who's really more of an acquaintance but holds out the possibility of future social cred, the nose-wiping-butt-wiping-brush-your-teeth-reminding, the day-to-day of it all can eventually wear a person down to the point of blurting out the impotent cry of "I'm not your slave" in response to "Mom, can you pass the salt?" And yet this is what we signed up for and none of the gentle pastel coated books on parenting warn you about. It's the business end of having kids. The necessaries that make the idyllic slo-mo backyard antics with the dog and Dad's old baseball glove immortalized by many a commercial possible. The logistics are the red-tape of parenting. They're not fun, they're not intended to be, you don't have to like doing them every minute of every day. It doesn't make you a shitty parent.

Second, let's talk about the Time-Suck. You have no time, and it sucks. What about the quality time you spend with your family and dog in the backyard? That happens, it is a rare Haley's Comet occurrence when the planets align and everyone is in the same place at the same time and not gripped by hormonal foul moods. Otherwise, your free time comes at a premium that must be paid back in increments of doing the dishes, helping with homework, letting the dog out in the middle of the night, giving your spouse an equal allotment of free time and lavishing the attention on your children that they want but won't tell you about until you do not adequately supply it. It's ok to be pissed that you have no time, it doesn't make you a shitty parent.

Thirdly, let's visit Fear, Anxiety and Panic. No matter how much yoga, meditation, or wine consumption you practice that trio of doom is always present at some level. And that presence is a constant reminder that despite your best intentions and practices, you have no control over your offspring or, more acutely, the world that is bound to inflict mayhem on them in some way. And the realization that that perfect baby who you swore would remain pure and unscathed, will, in fact, become scathed. And all rationality will leave you when your kid is in a full nelson on the wrestling mat and you will vow to have his opponent arrested while your spouse pats you on the back and tells you this is a good character building experience and you vow to undercook his chicken just a little bit and see how his character builds from that. Fear, Anxiety and Panic are not our friends, but they are our companions on this parenting trek, and like the cousin you wish you didn't get stuck talking to at the family reunion, it's okay to wish you were sitting at the cool cousin table. It doesn't make you a shitty parent.

Next, let's crack this Gratitude nut. Raising safe, independent, responsible kind children is it's own reward, parents do not need kids to say thank you. Bullshit. We all want it at some point; that twinkly swelling soundtrack moment when our kids realize all we've done for them and thank us through the magic of skywriting or a tear-stained letter to the Kelly & Michael show. Let's face it, that's what Mother's Day and Father's Day is all about? Do we need it? No. Because of that whole love thing that never goes away but deepens over time, because of tribulation and in partnership with the complexity and inevitability of flawed humans caring for one another. Do we still want it? Yep. And that doesn't make you a shitty parent.

And lastly, let's talk about guilt. I have been consumed by guilt while writing this entire post. How could I possibly admit out loud-ish that I don't like parenting? That must mean that I don't like my kids, which is code for I don't love my kids, which is code for I am a freakish monster.  Well folks, even your dream job isn't a dream all the time. There's still paper work to file, you're going to make mistakes and doubt your abilities and sometimes the jelly donut you thought was going to make the day better is going to squirt out the wrong side and ruin the dress you paid too much for and are wearing for the first time. I love my kids; that is an universal absolute. And the real reason I sometimes don't like being a mother is because I'm afraid I suck at it, and these extraordinary perfectly flawed, scathed and miraculous offspring of mine will suffer as a result. And that doesn't make me a shitty parent. It just makes me a parent.

So, for this mother's day season I wish you forgiveness, fortitude, and the gratitude that does not come in a floral arrangement or Jared jewelry box, but the kind that whispers to you when you least expect it, looks nothing like you imagined and comes not on a prescribed date but at a random moment in the grocery store or passing in a hallway or during spontaneous backyard antics and reminds you that you are not a shitty parent.

You're Doing It!

So this is weird. In recent days I find myself bombarded with general Facebook posts inspiring the masses to follow your passion, leave that job you hate, move about in the world and make your dreams come true. And I feel paralyzed by the optimism.

Sure it all sounds grand and like the premise for a really successful summer movie aimed at grabbing the 22-35 female demographic, but I seem to be thwarted by the very real need to buy gas, pay for the homeowner's insurance and replenish the supply of frozen pizzas and Jimmy Dean Breakfast sandwiches which are really the only things I have energy to "cook." I would love to follow my passion, but who's going to pick up teenager #1 from school or buy a new concert shirt for teenager #2? Who's gonna buy dog food (because they can really only last on cheerios for so long) and give the bathroom sink an occasional wipe down? Who's gonna chip away at the mountain of debt while I'm off pursuing a passion which, apparently, has no monetary value?

Seriously. I'm asking. Who?

Somehow I don't think the New York Times Best selling author who is posting platitudes is going to spot me the cash it will take for me to follow my bliss. No, I have to go out and earn that through grit and determination and hard work ( or so says the next post on my feed). But wait a minute, that's what I've been doing for the last 25 years. At what point does grit cross over into delusion?

Never Mary! Don't give up on the dream! You gotta believe! Be Brave!

Seriously?

In my 20's and 30's I would have seen all of these inspirational posts and effectively worded quotations as signs that I was on the right path. In my late 40's it just feels like a justification for not seeing the light. I don't think the universe is sending me signs to be patient, I think the universe might be telling me to choose paying the bills over creative fulfillment.

But you can do both! Get out there! Network! If you can dream it, you can do it!

Okay. Sure. You're right. Stay positive. I'll do that after I'm done at my day job; oh but wait a minute, I have to do that other job tonight. Well maybe in between...nope nope, I need to get milk and take teenager #2 to the dentist. Okay, okay, I'll just stay up late and finish that resume, oh, but wait a minute I have to put in time on the marriage thing so husband doesn't feel neglected and unimportant, so I'll just wake up early, except I can't keep my eyes open after the third night of five hours of sleep and my resume looks like a 2 year old just discovered a typewriter for the first time.

All I'm hearing is excuses Mary...If you really want this then you need....

Okay shut up right there. The problem is I don't just want this. I want that, and the other thing, plus a side of what the hell was I thinking. I want a life. I want to go on vacation, and I want to have a dog to walk, and I want to laugh with friends, and I want to conquer that level of Candy Crush, and I want to try that recipe, and I want to see that movie, and I want to see my kids graduate high school and have a life too. I want a life. I need a life, so I have something to bring to that silly pipe dream passion of mine. And to have a life to feed my passion I need money to feed my family. I still have to pay the bills, because the life I chose to lead has messy, wonderful, weird, annoying, perfect responsibilities. And some days optimism doesn't make the cut for the to do list.

I love the intention behind the inspirational sharing; in fact my office has many of those same quotes scattered on the walls. I will always be a glass is half full kinda gal, especially if it's full of wine. I still ascribe to the power of Zuzu's petals. But one's bliss does not always remain simple or singular.

So I would like to add an option to the pile of inspiration. In addition to "YOU CAN DO IT!" I'd like to propose the occasional "you are doing it." No CAPS, no graphics, no sweaty well-toned Nike athletes. Just a simple reminder.

Job Listing: Wife Needed

I need a wife.

I suppose I should say "I need a co-spouse" or "partner" or "life companion" or some other Gwyneth Paltrow inspired label. But that is just pretty candy coating to help this bitter pill go down. What I need is a wife; because I am failing miserably. I will concede to this modern world that I do not define wife by gender; we have indeed come a long way baby. No, a wife is no longer defined by gender, but by job description:

Job Title: Wife

Position available immediately. Full time wife needed to maintain household, schedules and sanity of typical (and by typical I mean crazy) family in Philadelphia region. Duties include but are not limited to:

• Maintaining well stocked refrigerator and pantry
• Cooking nutritional meals that have a chance of actually being consumed
• Scheduling all doctor's appointments, confirming said appointments, rescheduling said appointments when the team makes the playoffs, driving to and from said appointments and providing incentives (read-bribes) to appointees to complete said appointments
• Cleaning the house (rapid stuffing of extraneous shit in closets and doing quick once over with Swiffer, microfiber cloth and Febreeze spritzing acceptable in emergency drop-by situations only; full on baseboard scrubbing, lemony fresh pledge smelling, white glove level scouring required for any and all in-law visits)
• Driving anywhere at any time for any purpose that fate dreams up.
• Filling gas tank to avoid spouse's eye-rolling
• Loading dishwasher, unloading dishwasher, and putting all dishes back; even if you don't know where they go, finding someplace for them other than the middle of the table.
• Laundry: washing, folding, and putting away. Job also includes tireless discovery of socks under random pieces of furniture in rooms where socks do not tread.
• Providing appropriate reactions to all in the family from outrage to unadulterated joy and intuiting the calibration of said reactions without the benefit of clues, hints or support.
• Coordinating all home repairs as well as being present while they occur and knowing when to offer a glass of water without appearing awkward.
• Providing spousal back-rubs with no personal agenda
• Maintaining everyone's schedule flawlessly including reminders and the willingness to cancel things you want to do in lieu of last minute vital work, sport, or school functions.
• Embracing Spock's motto "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."
• Paying all bills
• Killing all bugs, cleaning up all vomit, tucking everyone in, relinquishing all rights to remote during March Madness (and every other day as well), replacing toothbrushes every two months and anticipating everyone's needs before they do.

Applicant should have experience in doing all of the above with a smile on their face and joy in their heart without a shred of irony or attitude as well as a willingness to take on more duties as they arise without having to be asked.

Hours: endless

Compensation: personal fulfillment-results vary and are inconclusive.

Benefits package: See compensation

If interested, please have head examined and then run quickly away. The Gap almost always has openings, and you get a store discount.

F*#k College

Teenager # 1 is a junior in high school. The year of reckoning. The year we've been credentialing for since Pre-K. The year of acronyms: SAT, ACT and APs. The year they really look at. The almighty THEY. The THEY we endow with the power to determine our children's' fate, our parental street cred and the rear window decor of our cars.

College.

It is the golden carrot we have dangled in motivational fervor for our kids and ourselves since conception propelling us to achieve the unattainable security of a future unscathed and paved with prosperity. It was the reason for the in-vitro Mozart jam sessions, the flashcards at 18 months, the Suzuki violin lessons at age 3, the meticulously vetted Pre-K decision, the insistence on that first grade teacher rather than the other one, the phone call to the 6th grade science teacher about that B on that test, the hard-won debate about why 9th grade honors English IS a good fit, the backseat driving for that community service project, and the editorial "assistance" on that application essay. College is the holy grail whose elusive acquisition overshadows the original reason for going there in the first place.

I went to college. I liked college. I learned a lot from college. But as the mother of a junior I find this mantra keeps presenting itself to me: Fuck College.

Do I want my kid to go?

Yes.

Do I want him to suffer the pressure, stress, shame, anxiety and mania which feels intensely prevalent in the process these days?

Not particularly.

And the good news is, he does not feel that. The pathetic news is, my husband and I do.

Not because we expect our kid will go to Yale or Stanford or Oxford; not because we expect him to win the nobel prize, not even because we want to brag about it to our vast network of friends we have lost touch with because we've been too busy parenting. Nope, we feel it because he says he wants it, and we want to help him get there, and we all seem to disagree on how to accomplish that.

He sees it as some far off place like Narnia or Oz; a desirable location whose entrance requirements include simple door opening, curiosity or the luck of being near a tornado at the right time. And the urgency of arriving at said fantastical yet totally attainable Eden is eclipsed by the release of the next new history making limited edition pair of Jordans. His response, as is the response to all distant deadlines, "Don't worry Mom, I got this," delivered with a confidence which makes me believe he has turned a corner in his maturity, but is later revealed as a deceptively Oscar-worthy piece of acting.

My husband believes in teenager #1's potential absolutely. And, because of that faith he, admirably, suggests, and encourages, and suggests some more, and makes pacts, and suggests again, and puts down his foot, and threatens summer school, and suggests one more time, and gives up, but not really, because he knows how to help if only teenager #1 would let him help, so he suggests one last time, which turns out to be the proverbial straw for the overburdened camel.

And me, well, I'll try anything. I do what husband does too and help too much. I also do what teenager #1 does and live for days, weeks, months at a time in denial. I also make a lot of food to feed the beast. I also search desperately for moments of calm to introduce potentially controversial subjects like GPA or coming up with a list of colleges, or SAT prep. I also devise alternate plans in my head for the future which often includes a time machine sending me to the future so I can skip over all of this Bullshit.

And then there are moments of alarming clarity for husband and me. Moments when we realize that college is not, in fact, the holy grail. It is not a lifetime warranty guaranteeing success, prosperity and happiness. It is the road more travelled, for certain; a well-paved road with a high success rate, But it is just one route. There are so many others. Some of those other routes actually lead to college in a different way. Some of them lead to trade schools for jobs which will, most likely, never be erased by digital advancement; you know like cooking, cutting hair, fixing a car, fixing a clogged drain. Jobs we rely on and pay dearly for because they insure convenience. And some other routes lead to the opportunity to make a new path. How Robert Frost-ian. And, just like that, College's death-grip is relieved. It becomes just another in an infinite list of choices.

Bearing that in mind, I will amend my previous hostility with my own personal College Serenity Prayer

There are no mistakes, only opportunities
I cannot control the future
My self worth is not defined by the stickers on the rear window of my car
My child's life is his to discover
An SAT score only measures how well you take the SATS
My children WILL eventually move out of the house
Life is what you make of it
Eggs and bacon at 10pm can cure all ills
Panic is not our friend
Fuck College

Be Careful What You Wish For

I went on a job interview last week. An all day job interview, immersive you might say. And the strangest thing happened, I left feeling like I did really well. So, of course, the next logical reaction was terror...that I might actually get the job.

So then I began to soothe myself by listing all the reasons why I would have to turn it down.

• My average hours per week would most likely double.
• The logistics of getting everyone to school on time could evolve from difficult to nightmarish.
• I might not have the right work clothes.
• It would mean putting another nail in the coffin of my actual hopes and dreams.
• I wouldn't be able to go to as many of my son's basketball games next year.
• Dinner time would morph from its current state of slapdashery into an all out farce.
• I may not be up to the job.
• It might mean I am good at something.
• It might mean I am good at something I never planned on being good at.
• It might verge on the periphery of what some call success. 

Whenever I set out on a new venture, I am usually propelled by two fears:

1. That I will be discovered as the fraud we all know I am at any moment.

2. That I will do well and have to feel pride in my accomplishments.

And there are probably so many conventionally cliche and weird ooey gooey places this ritual of self sabotage originates from.

• Catholicism
• Being the youngest of six and therefore a product of my parents' realization that kids really raise themselves.
• Being a woman
• Being a hard worker as opposed to a brilliant thinker.
• Being married to a successful man
• Being lazy
• The complacency of comfort
• The possibility that there really isn't much under the hood.
• My mother's self-image
• My father's success
• Being me

I have worked very hard over my many years to program the intricate software of my self-doubt for a balanced output of manageable accomplishment and resentment. The constant wrench in these works is that I am also plagued by optimism. Optimism upsets this balance because it drives me to read Marianne Williamson's Our Deepest Fear, and listen to anthemic pop music, and watch Henry V's St. Crispin's Day speech and Hoosiers in its entirety which leads me to possibly the most dangerous outcome--believing in myself.

Don't worry, it doesn't last long because I quickly equate self-confidence with arrogance (see Catholicism above), and resettle into my acceptable version of ordinary. (You literally just witnessed this process since I was sickened by my own declaration of believing in myself to the point of belittling it and blaming it on the Catholic church)

This has been my  life's "To be or not to be." Only its gravitas is not so much the stuff of Shakespeare. (doing the whole devaluing sleight of hand again right here.) The root of this particular evil is simple: I will be discovered a fraud when others finally realize that there is not much of value or interest or capability beyond the obvious good looks and superficial charm. The irony of this particular evil is that is has driven me to make sure my fraudulence is never discovered, which has consequently lead me to develop skills that some now may consider valuable. And how do I reconcile that? How do I accept success (something I want) when I ultimately feel I do not deserve it (something I believe)?

I haven't been offered the job, so, thankfully, I do not have to answer that question yet. I can continue to postpone the possibility of success and the epiphany of self-significance by getting on with the reality of life. And one day, when when I truly crack this nut, I can get on with the reality of living.