Aselin

All parents screw their kids up. It’s part of the circle of life. Mine did a number on me, and while I’ve come to embrace the neuroses that make me who I am, I do worry about how badly my own kids have it and if they’ll be able to decide to be happy regardless of their circumstances.

For each of them I keep a labeled jar for their future Therapy Fund. Infractions like repeatedly calling them the wrong name elicit a deposit of a quarter. Answering the phone when their friends call in a heavy foreign accent and insisting my teenager is the president of the Flock of Seagull’s fan club - well that one can bring up to a dollar. To ameliorate any guilt pangs that may arise, I plan on giving them the jar when they’re 18. They can either take a trip around the world or enroll in a few months of paying to someone listen to how bad it was to be raised by me.

As a mother I have worked very hard to prepare them for the real world. For instance, I have taught each of them how to perform the dance move ‘the worm’. They all can play the refrain of “My Sherona” on the touch tone telephone, and they all know how to make a mean egg drop soup. I’ve likely thrown in a few other lessons along the way like learning a work ethic, being honest, serving their fellow man, blah blah blah.

So imagine my delight while sitting around the dinner table enjoying a lovely dinner I had crafted, unnamed child number one insists that they must chew with their mouth open because it’s physically impossible not to. I am pretty sure I haven’t punched this child in the mouth and caused serious swelling recently, so I can’t figure out how it can be physically impossible to close one’s mouth. I take a few deep breaths while watching food bits fly out during the inane explanation.

I’ve read the parenting books. I know how to raise kids. I repeat under my breath choose your battles. Choose your battles. Choose your battles.

Unnamed child number two passes gas so loudly I think we’re being dive bombed by an air tanker. Unnamed child number one starts to gffaw, causing the contents of the uncloseable mouth to projectile around the placemat. I slap the table glaring at both of the savages that have been allowed to grace my presence. I half rise to my feet and they both cower in fear. Order has been restored and pleasant conversation resumes.

Patting myself on the back I mentally point out that I’m a really good parent. Most people today allow manners to devolve with no repercussions whatsoever. My children will not leave my house not knowing better. We’re having a nice, genial conversation about the goings on at school. I’m doing such a good job...

Suddenly, out of nowhere, unnamed child number three has some sort of gag reflex while taking a huge drink of milk. Spewing the milk all over the main dish, the side dishes, each of our eating plates, smattering the entire family and most of our drinking glasses one would have thought it was staged the lactose distribution was so effective.

I wipe milk off my neck and arm and stare toward the end of the table. There are no words as our eyes meet. In a gunfight at the OK corral moment the other two innocents at the table back away in fear as unnamed child number three starts stuttering a feeble explanation.

I quietly clear my plate and walk over to the cabinet where I keep their Therapy Funds. Lifting each of the jars I pour them into my Spa Fund.

Lesson for today, I can be happy regardless of my circumstances.