The Therapy Jar

Really, the title of this post should be: Why I suck as a parent!

The Therapy Jar is an old Mason jar (that is what we, in the south, call those old jars our grandmothers used for canning fresh vegetables. Everything here goes by it's brand name.... Ritz crackers, Coke instead of Soda, etc.) into which we put all of our spare change. When the jar is full, we add it to the children's savings accounts.

Because I really suck at parenting, my children will be using this money to pay for the extensive therapy they are going to require when they reach adulthood. The Therapy Jar money will not go for a down payment on anything or to help out with college.... It will be used for counseling.

Abby was playing with my bedside lamp yesterday. When I was ready to read my shamelessly hokie romance book before bed, the lamp, of course, wouldn't work. Abby said: "It's broke." And responsible parent that I am, I said: "Yes. You broke it." She didn't bat an eye. "No. It's not brokedid, it just needs batteries."

I'm sure this will probably shock Rob, but I either pretend to be asleep or say: "Is that J.T.?" when they awaken in the middle of the night so he will go check on it for me. Unless someone is sick or vomiting, I will not be getting out of the bed.

I'm completely unafraid to shade the truth a little. No, the Barney video isn't working right now. And technically it isn't. Because it's not in the video player. You're out of chocolate milk. And while there is some in the refrigerator, it isn't in your cup, so you ARE out of chocolate milk.

My voice occassionally leaves the pleasant range when I discover Sharpie marker on the cabinets, pee pee on the bathroom floor, or a child jumping off the back of the sofa. I may be shading the truth on the pleasant range bit.... it is probably more like Jerry Springer-level shouting.

They eat too much candy and not enough vegetables and the television is indeed used as a babysitter. I will ban them from the room so I can watch my favorite show.

Last year, I forgot to lock our bedroom door. I felt something next to me while Rob and I were doing the horizontal mamba and discovered that J.T. was actually IN THE BED with us. I may have to be in therapy for that one myself.

So 20 years from now, my children will be using the Therapy Jar Money for just that: Therapy. And Rob, the sane, gift-buying-for-no-reason, "It's okay, Daddy's here." one will come out smelling like a rose, while I on the other hand, will be blamed for everything. And I have to admit I will probably have earned every criticism.

Because, to top it all off. I will steal money from the therapy jar so I can swing through the fast food place on the way to work and get a biscuit and a diet coke.