Oct. 26, 2009
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Raising teenagers means having a short memory
The Family Guy Let me clarify. My Lovely Wife is a social creature, while I'm as outgoing as the Unabomber. But compromise is what successful marriages (at least the ones that last longer than an episode of “Rock of Love”) are all about. So I use cleaning as a coping mechanism. The house doesn't need to be cleaned, but it'll make me feel less anxious, not to mention that it helps me avoid the temptation to open a frothy adult beverage hours before anyone arrives. I dust. I vacuum. I piddle and pick up. I arrange and rearrange. I fluff and fold, do laundry, wipe down countertops and scrub toilet bowls until I feel settled and ready to entertain. With everything else finished, my eyes are drawn to the only closed door in the house. With fear in my heart and an armload of cleaning supplies, I take a deep and enter The Lair of The Diva. I'm not suppose to go in there, though not out of some sort of “It's her room and she deserves a modicum of privacy” pledge. It's because her room makes me itch. It's almost impressive, the mess that child can generate in such a relatively small area. But because it was the day after it had been her duty to do so, The Diva's room was supposed to be clean. I simply wanted to clean it better. If cleaning is an art form, then The Diva still works with finger paints. So in I went. Not bad, a little neatening up, perhaps a squirt or two of Febreze, a little dusting, and I'll be on my way. There's only so much I can do without disturbing the natural order of things to where she'll detect a tremor in The Force and know I've entered, shattering my promise to resist cleaning by maintain my parental discretion. I'm lousy at parental discretion. I'm more like an atomic bomb, only instead of collateral damage I leave the scent of Lemon Pledge in my wake. After dumping the paraphernalia of the pre-teen – dirty Q-tips, face-scrubbing pads, electric hair strengtheners – into an open drawer, I was about to leave when something caught my eye. Tossed in a dark corner was a family photo, one of the last pictures taken before Jellybean's arrival. But something was wrong. Something was missing -- my face. The Diva, in a fit of anger, had torn off my head. I had known this day would come, though my imagination hadn't conjured up this scenario. I assumed it would be her shouting, “You're not my real father,” during an argument, or me waking up duct-taped with my bed on fire after asking her to clean the dinner dishes. This… was mean. Of course I knew what had inspired the vandalism. The night before, after dozens of reminders, I took away her phone and TV until she finished her chores. This was met by a series of huffing-and-puffing starring contests before being punctuated by the slamming of her bedroom door. She's still cute, even when acting demon-possessed. But she got the chores finished and got her phone back. That, I assumed was the end of it. Now this. And I was admittedly wounded. I tried to laugh it off, putting it back on the night stand, like a warning. “Now you know that I know.” That was sure to keep her up at night. But I had to let it go. Raising teenagers means having a short memory. Besides, next week, it'll be My Lovely Wife's turn to be hated. Guess I'd better hide the family photo album. Brett Buckner is an award-winning former columnist for the Anniston Star. He lives in Columbus, Ga. with his wife, daughter and stepdaughter. His humor column appears regularly in The Post. Contract Brett at brett.buckner@yahoo.com. |