Responsibility. Like most teenagers, I hated it.

It wasn’t my fault I failed my drivers’ test. I had no clue that both right tires were on the curb until I saw that the head of the Drivers’ Ed guy was at a much higher level than mine. I got back on the road, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

But he had. “You took a curb,” he said.

“But I fixed it!” We switched seats.

Embarrassed to tell anyone, I wore a band aid and said I had a blood test.

I failed the written exam on the question, “If a blind person is crossing the road, do you:

1.      Stop.

2.      Reduce your speed.

3.      Honk your horn.

I checked # 2. The teacher said, “I see. It’s OK to drive over a blind person slowly?”

“You put that option in.”

I wore another band aid.

My poor parents. I hated wearing glasses. I did something appalling  . . .  three times. In class, I’d fling them in the air so they’d break upon landing. By the third pair, Dad was on to me because my teacher caught me and called him. I explained, “Everybody thought it was hilarious.” Dad didn’t.

I used to beg them to nix a babysitter when they’d go out. Finally, they agreed. I had 2 days to invite 24 kids to my party. When my folks came home, the house was empty. But so was the fridge. “Mom, I was starving!” She said, “A whole cheesecake, a whole roast, a loaf of rye?” I prayed she wouldn’t open the cabinet with the now-missing chips and pretzels. She did.

Sometimes praying doesn’t work.  

She surmised, “You had a party!” I thought quickly. “I didn’t mean to. Someone knocked. When I opened the door, all these kids yelled, ‘Surprise!’”

During college, we were protesting something. We had “sit-ins” and skipped classes. Apparently I skipped about 40 too many. During summer break, a letter came, stating I flunked out.

Wordlessly, Dad handed me the letter. I stared at it and said, “Are the tomatoes ripe yet?”

“You failed,” he said.

“Dad, there’s a war!”

Testing me, he said, “What war exactly?”

“THE war. It’s not my fault you don’t read newspapers.”

They made me see a psychiatrist. A really old bearded man. Must have been at least forty. Unbelievably, he wouldn’t help me slink out of anything. “You’re supposed to help people,” I pouted.

He said, “I’ll help you help yourself.” Phooey. So I went to summer school and earned my unearned credits.

Now I take responsibility. Except with my husband Bob. Last week he asked me to wash dishes.

“I’m disabled!” It’s true.

“Your arms work perfectly. You milk your disability for everything.”

“Like what?” I said, hoping to hear a milking idea I hadn’t already thought of.

“You name it.” Darn.

“One example.”

“Paying bills, returning calls, feeding pets, putting laundry away.” Then an unfortunate fact dawned on him. “You’ve never done one laundry.” It’s true.

“I can’t get down the basement steps.” That’s true too  . . .  now.

“Your disability hit 2 years ago. What about the 25 years before?”

“That basement’s icky. There’s no microwave, TV, mini-fridge. Bob, it’s hell down there!”

“Then why should I do it all?”

“Because NOW I can’t climb steps.” I had him there.

 Heavy sigh. “Well, NOW you can help with these dishes.”

As I began shoving them in the oven, he grabbed my hand. “Help,” he said, “means wash.”

As it so often occurs, a life-altering experience happened in a heartbeat. I acknowledged my responsibility. I love this man, for heaven’s sake. I happily washed the dishes and promised to do my share of everything. He gave me a huge forgiveness hug.

“I promise to keep my promise,” I said. And I will.

But when the Reese’s are gone, there’s no way I’m not blaming the dog.