It's All My Fault

I wrote this piece about 2 years ago. An edited version appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette on September 26, 2005.


If you ever wonder whether the world is really full of injustice, just spend a day at my house. The unfair treatment routinely meted out to my kids would shock even the most optimistic members of society. And it’s all my fault. Who knew?

“Mom, why is Josh still awake?” Phil, my 11-year old, standing in my bedroom doorway, arms crossed with indignation, was giving me the Spanish Inquisition treatment. Josh, at the age of 8, was given a 10:00 p.m. bedtime this particular night. It was now 10:30, Phil’s assigned bedtime, and Josh was still awake. Playing Gameboy. Okay, and he was in bed with his Dad and me.

We’ve been through this before. I can give no correct answer. Phil is waiting to pounce.

“He came up at ten and he’s just awake waiting for you,” I offer, knowing full well that this answer will, well, piss him off.

“Mom, it’s not fair. When I was his age you never let me stay up as late as Noah!” He refers to his brother, who is 2 ½ years older than Phil. So in Phil’s mind, if he had to go to bed before Noah, then Josh should have to go to bed before him. Never mind that Noah was never allowed to stay up until 10:30 at the age of 11.

It’s complicated. My attempts to strike a fair balance, giving the older ones a few privileges, cutting the younger ones some slack, come back to haunt me.

“Mom, how come we always have pizza on Fridays, when it’s Phil’s night to do the dishes? He hardly has to do anything!” This is Sam talking, the oldest one who, he informs me regularly, never gets to do anything, while his younger brothers get to do everything. Never mind that Sam never had a dish night at all when he was 11. I guess the fact that Sam is touring Italy as I write this doesn’t count as getting to do something.

I’ve tried to figure this out. As the oldest, Sam probably has some deep-seated unacknowledged psychological resentment at the fact that he’s had to share his parents with these, these interlopers, after having had us all to himself for the first two years of life. After all, isn’t that when a person’s psyche is most vulnerable? Or maybe he’s just mad that Phil takes so long in the shower. Either way, they both seem to think it’s all my fault.

As a middle child, Phil probably felt marginalized by the arrival of a new baby when he was just 3 ½, forcing us, his parents, to devote all our time and attention to the helpless creature, much to the detriment of the toddler who was, after all, there first. He had dibs on us. He all but said so when Josh was 2 weeks old.

“Mom, when are you taking the baby back to the hospital?” he asked, clearly annoyed that this new arrival got to spend hour after hour after hour in the baby swing while Phil was forced to endure, heaven forbid, preschool.

“Honey, the baby is your new brother. He’s going to stay here with us,” I replied, in my kindest, most nurturing voice.

This was not the correct answer.

He glared at me with alarm and distain, as if I had just told him the Power Rangers was a bad influence and would no longer be tolerated in the house.

It was around this time that Phil’s imaginary friend, Commander Keen, came to live with us. He slept in Phil’s bed and followed us on his motorcycle on the way to preschool. Phil’s teacher was kind enough to leave an empty chair for Commander Keen so he could sit next to Phil at the Halloween party.

Justice reigned in preschool.

Clearly, my decision to have a fourth child had derailed Phil from his former destiny of leading a normal unperturbed childhood. How could I have been so insensitive?

And there are other injustices in our house. I let someone sit in the front seat twice in a row. I don’t yell at Noah as much as I yell at Sam. I make Josh and Phil take swimming lessons at the same time. I don’t make Josh learn to ride a two-wheeler. I don’t let Sam get an ipod. I force all the boys to go to the pool. I let someone stay home from the pool. I don’t let anyone go to the pool. I wake them up too early. I let them sleep in too late. I get mad when someone says “crap.” I don’t get mad when someone says “friggin’.” I make meatloaf for dinner. I won’t allow any of them to play video games rated “M”. I let one play his piano for 15 minutes and make the other one play his cello for 20. I let Sam and Noah have their own rooms. I make Phil and Josh share. I force them to read.

These are serious infractions that are completely within my control to correct, yet I choose to ignore them. So maybe it really is all my fault. But that’s okay with me. Because maybe somewhere along the line they’ll learn something. Like sometimes life isn’t fair for no good reason. And it’s good to have siblings, and sharing is seldom fatal.

Oh, and Moms aren’t perfect. If my kids learn that, then maybe there is a little justice in this world after all.