Sometimes my titles are better than what I feel like writing about.
“Helping doesn’t always help” is what my son said to me tonight as I was trying to “help” him clean his face properly.
Sage wisdom that I have subscribed to for years except in extreme cases of me being right or The Parent.
I am so often compelled to help others see the ways that I am right that it can be quite off-putting and not nearly as humorous or endearing as Jules in Cougar Town.
I frequently lose the line between the helpful parent trying to gracefully guide our offspring through the trials and miscalculations of being kids and preteens, and that other one in the grocery store we all point at with our mental forefinger, silently tsking away her apparent ineptitude in dealing with her obviously grossly misunderstood child.
I know the psycho jargon for my Ripkinesque streak of consecutive days without missing a single opportunity to at least once indicate I was correct above all else, has to do with defending my position in the Universe lest I be flicked from it.
The parenting pendulum is an enigma wrapped inside a polysemous shroud cryptically woven by three blind mice hiding from a herd of loose cats chasing after the red dot at the end of a laser pointer.
“Helping doesn’t always help, Mom.”
Well, all right then.
And a chair is merely there to sit on.
It provides no assistance whatsoever.
Other than the fact that it is there.
To be sat upon.
When not standing.