Enabler Found In Sherman Oaks

My friend Candice, the Laughing Matriarch, tells me I'm the ultimate enabler when it comes to my sons.  I have no idea what she's talking about.  Is it because I make their lives a little easier by doing everything for them, with the exception of wiping their tushies, which I stopped doing a few years back?  Is it because I let my sons think they're in charge of their lives, when really, I'm the one pulling the strings?  I refer you to the recent apartment search for the eldest.  Who found the apartment?  The SJG.  Where is the apartment located?  Three blocks from the SJG.  See what I did there?
Maybe I oversupply my boys with nice things.  Maybe I spoil them with toilet paper engraved with their names and limo rides to and from their friends' houses.  After an evening of debauchery, I don't want my sons driving in an altered state.  Better they should ride in luxury than spend a night in a chilly jail cell with big scary people.  I'm a giver.  I give, they take, and when the right moment arises, I guilt.  I do guilt better than anyone.  Guilting, SJG-style, requires the perfect balance of whining, grimacing, sobbing and pacing.   The ratio of tears to hand-wringing is highly scientific.  Too much and the boys laugh in my face, collapse on the floor and mimic me.  Too little and they don't pick up on the subtle nuances of just how unhappy they've made me.  It's the Goldilocks Theory of Guilt, perfected over a lifetime, passed down from mother to mother, over the generations.  The temperature for guilt must be just right, or it doesn't work.  Trust me, I know what I'm doing.  Why stop now?  It's just how I roll.  I could go on and on, but I'm very busy at the moment, packing up for the eldest's life-changing move down the street.  Did I mention it's a two-bedroom?  One for him, one for me.  Don't tell him.  I'd like it to be a surprise.