By: Ann Brown
My kids can skip expensive years of therapy to find out who is to blame for their failures in life: it’s me.
I fucked them up. On July 14, 1998.
We awoke at the crack of noon that day. The kids watched TV from the moment they woke up. Stupid TV, not even that ersatz educational shit. And they blew off their chores. And lolled about on the couch while I drove through McDonalds for our lunch. Breakfast was leftover cake. We were going to rent a video, but that was too much effort. We toyed momentarily with going to the library, but no one wanted to look for his shoes.
My sons were happy. I was conflicted. We could have been at the museum. We could have been on a hike. We could have been writing letters telling Ken Starr to shut the fuck up already and think about why no wants to give him a blow job. It was a sunny day in July. No reason to sit in the house watching TV and eating junk food. No reason at all.
I wondered if anyone else had days like this but I’d never find out because I was never going to tell anyone about it. Surely Albert Einstein’s parents would not have allowed this kind of slacking. Or Michelle Kwan’s parents. Those parents hit the ground running each morning and kept going until every one of their children was enriched, tutored, coached, rehearsed, and perfectly coiffed. And those moms probably did their 25 Kegel exercises each evening, to keep their pelvic walls toned lest they chose to conceive and bear more achievers. Yeah, fuck those guys. They probably had bad sex. And not the good kind of bad sex.
What ever happened to laissez faire parenting? You know, when you can grab a cig and cup of coffee first thing in June and send the kids to play outside until, say, September? That kind of life isn’t approved of anymore. It went the way of, oh, I don’t know, douching. Does anyone even douche anymore? And why not?
Maybe the abandonment of douching is the key. It might have been the glue that held the whole, beautiful lifestyle together. That, and the fact that no one had discovered trans fats yet. A person could eat a shitload of fatty crap all night, grab a douchebag in the morning and get on with her day. When did that become a bad way to live?
Well, if you read my blog, you know that I blame Oprah. Her enthusiastic “gotta live your BEST life” edict has ruined the game. And frankly, is Oprah even living her BEST life? Really? Steadman? The woman could buy any man on the planet. Plus, I suspect that Steadman is actually Eric Holder. Which is not germane to this post, but still.
We have to start living our IT CAN BE KINDA FUCKED BUT BASICALLY IT’S OKAY life. Rage against BEST. Eschew enrichment. I just don’t get that enrichment shit, anyway. It’s just another meaningless word, like waterfeature or you have an addiction problem, Ann, and we are here to help. Blah, blah, blah.
Do it for yourself. Do it for your kids. Do it for Steadman.
[Photo Credit: Flickr image member Todd Huffman]