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Accept responsibility It has become fashionable for celebrities and others to blame their parents for all the bad things that happen in their lives. Perhaps I should say it has again become fashionable. You probably remember that years ago Christina Crawford wrote a book, "Mommy Dearest," about how despicable her mother, Joan, was. Today, we have Britney Spears accusing her mother of siding with her ex-husband against her. Lindsay Lohan's father spent time in prison, so he's apparently to blame for the fact that his daughter can't go two weeks without getting arrested for driving drunk. And just the other morning, there was someone from Michael Vick's hometown on TV blaming his mother for the way Michael turned out. Or at least the way a federal prosecutor is alleging he turned out. I feel bad for the parents. Parenting is hard work, and no amount of teaching right and wrong is going to keep a child from doing something boneheaded if the child is determined to do it. We all did dumb things when we were young, and many of us have continued doing dumb things right into adulthood. It's seldom the fault of our parents. My mother wasn't perfect. But she did a fine job raising my brother, Marvin, and me to be responsible adults. I normally would never think of airing our dirty laundry in the newspaper. On the other hand, since it is the young, hip thing for famous people to point fingers at their parents and since I like to pretend I'm young and hip, I thought I should share with you some of the evil things my mother did to me as a child. For instance, my mother was serious about bedtime. It was nine o'clock. Not 9:01. Nine o'clock. No ifs, ands or buts. She knew all the stall tactics. I'm convinced there are drill sergeants at basic training who got their technique from my mother. "Time for bed," she'd cheerfully announce as the clock reached the dreaded hour. "My throat's dry, Mama. I need to get a glass of water," I'd say. "Once you're asleep, it won't matter," she'd say, oblivious to the inherent dangers of dehydration. In the mornings, she forced us to make the bed. Often, to save time, I'd just pull the bedspread up over the rumpled sheets and be done with it. But she could always tell. Then she'd make me do it again, this time the right way by smoothing out the top sheet, then pulling the blanket on top of it and smoothing it out. Then pulling the spread up and covering the pillows. Of course, none of this made any sense to me since just a few hours later I was going to get back in the bed and mess it up again. Bath time was another of my mother's favorite devices of torture. I firmly believe that little boys could go several days without needing a bath. Little boys are supposed play in the dirt and roll around in the front yard with the dog. My mother felt otherwise, and thus, we had to take regular baths. She'd check up on us, too, to make sure we had really bathed. "Did you clean your ears," she'd ask? "Yes, ma'm," I'd respond. "Let me see," she'd say. Then she'd grab me and look into my ears. "Mitch, there's enough dirt in there to grow potatoes," was her favorite response. Personally, I was willing to take a chance on the potatoes. Not Mama. She'd immediately start rooting around my ear with a Q-tip. I'm convinced she dug so deep a couple of times that she scratched my brain. Mama never did seem remorseful about the damage she was clearly doing to my hearing. One day I'll be crossing the street and not hear the beer truck coming and it'll be her fault. I could go on and on about the things she did to us. She'd make us clean our rooms, hang up our own clothes and trim our toenails. She'd make us eat broccoli and sometimes she'd let the supply of chocolate chip cookies run out. I regret bringing up these memories. But I have to if I'm going to be a part of the latest celebrity trends. Like most trends, though, it'll end soon enough and we'll move on to the next hot thing. I even have an idea. Stop blaming others and accept responsibility for your own stupidity.
You never know. It just might catch on.
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