I spent the majority of my late teens desperately trying to escape the confines of my parents and their outdated and unfair rules.

I smoked like a chimney, switching to Menthols when I had a cold or the flu, because they “felt” better and “soothed” my throat.

I snuck booze out of my parents liquor cabinet, and yes, replaced their pricey Polish vodka with water when the bottle appeared suspiciously low.

I was never home on time, defiant of my curfew. Nothing good ever happened before 10 pm anyway.

I couldn’t wait to be a grown up.

Free from rules.

Far away from my meddling folks.

Independent; doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted dontchaknow.

 

Now, as I sit here in my kitchen (located on the third story of my parents house)

and sip on my herbal peppermint tea (really good for gastrointestinal distress)

and listen to my husband give our nine year old son his nightly breathing treatment for Cystic Fibrosis

and my seven year old plays hopscotch on my last nerve

and I put in a call to my mom to ask her advice about something

and I notice that it’s way past my bedtime (9:30)

I realize that

Irony?

 

She’s a big, fat, back-stabbing bitch.