Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Plagued by gilt.

Jack arrived home from Camp Hypocrite yesterday, sprouting the usual symptoms like a pox – sloth, avarice, insolence – reaffirming my belief in mandatory isolation after potentially harmful exposure.

To relatives.

A string of late nights, cocktail party chit chat, theatre excursions, and dinners that begin roughly around his bedtime and end when the last head hits the table – had reduced my otherwise sweet boy to a cranky, possibly contagious asshole in the throws of serious butter and silver spoon withdrawal.

Exhausted, filthy, and quick to criticize, the little prick even attempted a sideways guilt trip within seconds of deportation. I let the "I see I'm back to nothing to eat" comment slide, but when it was quickly followed by a "thanks for not being here when I got home" and then a resounding, "can you take me golfing?" – I snapped.

I'm glad he had fun and a little escape. It's been stressful around here, and he doesn't see his paternal relations often. But within seconds of arrival home, his Stockholm Syndromed ass was showered and sent to bed for a nap, like a cranky, 6-foot toddler.

In a matter of days, my little Patty Hearst had fallen hard for Jet Skis, power boats, late nights, and million dollar ocean views. Who could blame him? Our single-parent existence and the shaky foundation on which he was raised, revolves around mundane things like; sleep, education, unglamourous arena benches, hard work, love, orthodontist bills, discipline, survival, laughter, hockey costs, respect for women, work ethics, responsibility, routine, a little cheap plonk for mommy, and putting a roof over our heads. Did I mention respect?

His worshipping at the altar of style over substance hit a big ugly nerve. My kid needed a reality forecheck.

So, while selfless love and round-the-clock devotion may not be thrill seeking or sexy, at least when my head hits the pillow at a decent hour, because my child has to be at the rink by 5:30am, I have nothing to feel guilty about.

Except for maybe wanting to spank the ass of a 13-year old suffering from a sadly genetic, but thankfully temporary case of assholeitis.


Note: Shortly after posting this I made Jack his usual pancakes. For the first time he asked me why I didn't make them from scratch and why I didn't have a special pancake griddle. He is currently in his room.