Door-Slamming: A Guide To Parenting

Slam for emphasis

One son goes to college.  One son starts his first real job today.  My work here is done.  Now I can kick back and gloat.  The task of parenting, the long unpaid hours of hard labor, the yelling, the door-slamming, the soul-searching, the post-its all over the house, reminding me why I became a mother, the costly therapy sessions reminding me I'm not that bad a mother, the stack of books convincing me I'm a good enough mother.  I'm so over that phase.  Now I can sip wine.  Count the stars in the sky.  Bird watch.  Learn to play the saxophone.  Learn to play hooky.  It'll be a non-stop spa vacation, an endless pedicure.  A facial.  A great hair day.  A rockin' party, a disco, a celebration of me, me, me. 

I've paid my dues, people.  Made a ton of mistakes.  Used my words, incorrectly.  I've tried "I" instead of the more inflammatory "You."  I gave it my best shot, I swear:  "I can tell you're having a tough time today."  "I'm sorry you feel that way."  But I always regressed back to my native tongue.  "You're both driving me insane."  I cursed some.  I raged.  I overreacted.  I stomped.  I pleaded.  I got locked out of the house by my own children.  Parenting the SJG way has always been a work in progress, a mixed bag, a dicey experiment that often blew up in my face.  And yet, despite my countless blunders, my shameful parental gaffs, look how far they've come. One in college.  One employed.  My work here is done.  Until I'm called back for active duty.  I'm tightening door hinges, just in case.  You never know when a good slam might come in handy.
(For Malcolm!)