Spoiled Brats and Enemas

I'm going to tell you a little bit about my childhood. I wasn't responsible for this, so don't you be beaming haterz waves through the air, kay? I am simply going to state the facts. I was spoiled. Spoiled rotten. Doted upon. Praised liberally. My every (realistic) wish was granted. No, I didn't get a new car, but I got a car. Yes, I had to personally canvas Columbia to find the cheapest braces, but I got them. No, I didn't get a private school education, but I got an excellent public school education. No, I didn't get designer clothes, but Mom sewed me designer outfits. (I'd pick the material, cut the pattern, and she'd sew it up).

Mom was a housewife during my childhood. Why? Because she wanted to be one. You did not tell my mom what to do. Mom is a force of nature. If her mate had tried to force her to stay home or NOT stay home, she would have packed her masters degree, her dazzling blonde hair, her sparkling green eyes, her hideously annoyingly thin body (115 is her top weight EVER) and hit the road, Jack.

But she enjoyed being a housewife. She also liked to have things Done Just Right. Until the day I moved out of the house while she tearfully wailed on the couch, I had never:

1. Cooked a whole meal
2. Changed my sheets
3. Washed a load of laundry
4. Dusted
5. Vaccuumed
6. Made my bed

Let me assure you that my children are being raised quite, quite differently!!!!

I literally did not realize you were supposed to change sheets. Once I kept my sheets on my bed all year. My sister visited me and noticed the sheets were littered with things. Books. Cigarette ashes. Other things which I will have to leave to your imagination. No, not that (vbg) ! She snatched the sheets off and started a load of clothes, while I watched, bewildered. No, I'm not kidding.

And you wonder why I lived at home until I was a 3rd year law student? I had a live-in maid and a private bath. Daddy kept the oil changed in the car and paid all of the repair bills. Clothes flung on the floor appeared clean and ironed in my closet.

Once my VW broke down on Highway 17 between Georgetown and Myrtle Beach, 2 1/2 hours from home. I simply hitched a ride to the nearest phone, called Dad, and he arrived with a tow truck 2 1/2 hours later while I read a book. (I always carry books with me).

To this day, I approach the supper hour with loathing. You mean I'm supposed to cook supper? I usually eat a peanut butter & banana sandwich, Roger eats a Lean Cuisine, and we whip up something for the kids like a pizza or spaghetti or Kid's Cuisine.

Roger usually notices that the sheets look a little dingy and strips the bed while I run the load.

My USC sweater, which I'm wearing right now, bought in 1978, still has the little white holes that developed when I poured bleach over a color load. "It said Brighter, Fresh Colors!" I wailed.

Now I'm supposed to be the adult, caring for children and aged parents.

And I don't want to exert myself to care for Mom. She's supposed to do that for me, my inner brat whines.

My parents believed in thriftiness with every fiber of their being and they bragged constantly about how they were going to "provide for themselves in their old age" and how the "last thing they wanted is to be a burden on their children." And did they ever succeed! In fact, they took out nursing home/long term care insurance the minute it was available to state employees. Nobody remembered it. My mom of course is pretty much past the point of remembering what she ate for breakfast. My sister didn't remember. Daddy is dead. But I remembered. (Slow Golf Clap, please). So Mom's financial security is assured. It isn't much, but it will make all the difference. She has a nice nest egg too. I don't expect that I will ever have to support Mom. Thanks, Mom & Dad.

I grew up selfish. I never expected to have to take care of my parents. Oh, maybe in some misty land of The Distant Future I saw myself bidding them a tearful goodbye as they drifted into the arms of the angels. I never saw myself dealing with a parent with a terrible disease that creates a whiny, petulant, demanding, 2 year old. In my cold little barren Grinchy-size heart, I am furiously resentful of Mom's needs at this point. Because she isn't Sweet Mom. She's Crabby Mom. Nasty Mom. Whiny Mom. Endlessly Demanding Mom. Can't-remember-that-her-daughter-is-battling-fibromyalgia-and works-full- time-and-has-2-small children-Mom. Can't-remember-what-it's-like-to-work-8-hours-and-drive-80-miles every day Mom.

This post is inspired by the fact that I am going to have to give my mom an enema tomorrow.