But I was a senior. I was 18, which meant I knew everything my parents were still trying to figure out in their 40 plus years.
The guest bathroom door, at the opposite end of the house, would be perfect. I’d run the water, like I was brushing my teeth. Like I was a responsible underage drunk concerned about oral hygiene.
“Meet you at the mailboxes in 15 minutes,” I’d text.
Hours later, I’d sneak home just as wasted, because at that point of inebriation, it’s all the same.
Still hours later, my father would march into my bedroom, command that there be light, and haul the covers off my stiff body.
“Time to clean, Kayla Bell.”
I’d mumble something indecipherable yet obviously disrespectful to the man who for no justifiable reason fed me and put a roof over my spinning head.
“Hungover?” he’d ask. “Shouldn’t have come home at 5 a.m. Time to clean, Kayla Bell.”
A few of the details may have differed. Maybe I got ballsy and texted my friends to meet me in only five minutes. Maybe my dad added a few curse words the 10th time he had to see his baby girl a drunken mess at 8 a.m.
But for the most part it was the same. I was an asshole. And my parents loved me. They loved me enough to let me make mistakes and intensify the consequences of those mistakes.
Last night, a friend said if she never had kids, she’d be OK.
I agreed.
We one-upped each other with our asshole teenager stories. We were bad. But for the grace of whatever god was tasked with the grueling job of watching over us, we were not imprisoned or six feet under.
I do not wish to endure a night of what my parents spent years suffering through. I have nothing but pregnant, gang banging, crack-dealing child karma coming my way.
Cue Swaggie.
The whole reason I started writing this blog was because of a comment my mama wrote on a picture I posted on Facebook today.
“Payback from all the times you snuck out of my house!” she wrote on a photo of another contraption Swaggie managed to escape to leave her trail of super turds on my carpet.
It’s hardly a fair comparison, but that connection honestly allowed a little bit of self-forgiveness.
I still beat myself up over the hell that I put my parents through when I was a teenager. I really never understood why or how they claimed me, much less believed in and encouraged me.
But if their love for me is anything like the love I have for Swagg, I could all but poop on their pillows and still be worthy of love.
Even when the smell of Swaggie’s super turds wake me up from my sleep, I love her.
Even when she insists on licking my face after licking her super-turd-creating butt, I love her to death.
Even when that little bitch escapes the brilliant devices I construct to keep her in the kitchen, I shake my head and love her.
She’s nothing but a blessing who brought indescribable joy to my previously poop-free existence.
I have faith she will soon grow up and regret all the shit she brought to my life.
She’ll get over her more literal asshole stage, just like I did.
And then she’ll blog about how lucky she is to have such a loving, steadfast parent, just like the parents I had.
