If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits? by Erma Bombeck Page B

hundred and eighty-seven dollars' worth of vitamins down. Paid one hundred fifty-four dollars for her old teeth under the pillow. Indulged in two thousand dollars' worth of toys (batteries extra). Foot the bill for one hundred eighty-six skin preparations to kill a single pimple. Sent to camp. Took the sink apart to find her lost class ring. Worried myself sick when she cracked an A in human sexuality.
    Then I remembered a letter that a teenager had written me after she had read one of my books. Maybe that would get through to her.
    “Listen to this,” I said, reading from the letter.
    "Parents go through life, Mrs. Bombeck, saying to their children, 'I've worked my fingers to the bone for you. I've made sacrifices and what do I get in return?'
    "You want an answer, Mrs. Bombeck? You get messy rooms, filthy clothing, disheveled hair, dirty finger-nails, raided refrigerators ad nauseam. You get something else too. You get someone who loves you but never takes the time to tell you in words. You get someone who'll defend you at every turn even though you do wear orthopedic socks and enjoy listening to Pal Boone and changing your underwear everyday and acknowledging their presence in public.
    "Yes, sometimes you talked too much mid sometimes you turned away too soon. But you laughed with us and cried with us and all the agony, non-communication, frustrations, fears and angers showed us that despite the need to be free and independent and do our own thing... you cared.
    “And when we leave home, there will be a little tug at our hearts because we know we will miss you and home and everything it meant. But most of all, we will miss the constantly assured knowledge of how very much you love us.”
    My daughter looked up. Her eyes were misty. “Does that mean I don't get the three bucks?”
    In a way, I blame experts for the mess parents are in today. They laid a ton of guilt on us so that we questioned every move we made.
    I read one psychologist's theory that said, “Never strike a child in anger.” When could I strike him? When he is kissing me on my birthday? When he is recuperating from measles? Do I slap the Bible out of his hand on a Sunday?
    Another expert said, "Be careful in the way you discipline your children or you could permanently damage their Id.
    Damage it! I didn't even know where it was. For all I knew it either made you sterile or caused dandruff. Once I suspected where it was, I made the kid wear four diapers just to be safe.
    And scratch the wonderful “pal” theory that worked so great with our parents. My son slouched into the kitchen one night, threw his books on the countertop and said, “I've just had the worst day of my entire life and it's all your fault.”
    “How do you figure that?” I asked.
    “Just because you made me go back up to my room and turn off all the lights before I went to school, I missed the bus. Then, with all your nagging about cleaning up my room, I couldn't find my gym clothes and got fifteen points knocked off my grade.”
    “The gym clothes were folded in your bottom drawer.”
    “Yeah, well, what yo-yo would expect them to be there?”
    “You've got a point.”
    “I hope you're happy,” he grumbled. “I have failed English.” “I did that?”
    “That's right. I told you I had a paper that was due before lunch and you made me turn my lights off last night and wouldn't let me do it.” “It was one-thirty in the morning.” “Just forget it. It's done. Did you have a good lunch today? I hope so because, thanks to you, I didn't get any.”
    “What's THAT got to do with me?” “You're, the one who wouldn't advance me next week's allowance. And more good news. You know the suede jacket you got me for my birthday last year? Well, it's gone.”
    “And I'm to blame for that?” “I'm glad you admit it. All I hear around here is, 'Hang up your coat, hang up your pajamas, hang up your sweater...' and the one time I take your advice and hang up my jacket on a hook