Winning

I won!

I know Good Parenting is not about winning. Good Parents do not think in such terms. Good Parents aim to mold character, to encourage personhood, to cultivate citizenship, to give 'em wings and let 'em fly, yaddah yaddah yaddah. But I don't aspire to Good Parenhood anymore. I'm just looking to survive. And in this struggle for survival, I do relish a rare victory.

Hugh is now 16. When it comes to attitude, however, Hugh has been 16 since he first started talking at age 2. Arguing, actually, in beautifully articulate, perfectly pronounced, complete sentences. A toddler trial lawyer, he soon was racking up victory after victory against the opposition. Us. Me and Keith, the pitiful parents.

Hugh thrives on conflict. Chaos energizes him; a knock-down, drag-out fight gives him purpose and power. Keith, the most conflict-averse person I have ever known, never stood a chance. I am more of a fighter--but I am also the mother of another child and a teacher and a writer and a homeowner and a churchgoer and a citizen and. . . so Hugh soon realized that if he stuck to something long enough, eventually I would get distracted and he could plunge ahead and claim the prize. Which he did, and does, over and over and over again. It's a good thing parenthood is not supposed to be about winning, because we never win.

But I did, last night.

And you want to know the really horrible thing? I shouldn't have. Hugh was in the right. And I still feel good about winning.

It was around 10:00 and I was heading to bed. Hugh came into the hallway. "Gross! Totally disgusting! Sarah's diabetic cat pooped in my laundry basket!" Keith and I had gone for an over- night getaway to New Orleans and Cleaning Sarah had stayed overnight to care for the pets and make sure Hugh didn't decide to stage a Guys Gone Wild event in our absence. Cleaning Sarah has a diabetic cat that needs constant injections; hence the diabetic cat spent the night as well. And some time during the night, evidently, the diabetic cat took a shit in Hugh's dirty laundry.

Without thinking, I responded, "Eww, that is disgusting. So get a plastic bag and clean it up, will you, before Wimsey decides she has a new litter box."

Hugh spun on his heels, threw his arms in the air, and bellowed, "I'M not cleaning it up. YOU clean it up!" And you know, he was right. The diabetic cat was there because Cleaning Sarah was there, and Cleaning Sarah was there so that Keith and I could have great food and great sex in New Orleans. All to our benefit, none to Hugh's.

But he was bellowing. And I was tired. So I shifted into Parent Power gear. "Hugh. I. Said. Clean. Up. The. Poop." "I WILL NOOOOOTTTTT." On and on it went. Sooooo stupid and pointless. Such bad parenting.

And then I remembered. He's a just-turned-16-year-old American male. Duh.

"Hugh, until you clean up poop, all your driving privileges are revoked. I'm going to bed."

All was quiet. He cleaned up the poop.

Cue the theme song from "Rocky."