The Blame Game

When I was little, we had an invisible troublemaker at our house. There were eight kids but whenever something went wrong and fingers started to point and denial started to fly, we would inevitably end up with the truth...

the truth...

that nobody did it.

Isn't it just plain hard to take responsibility for our own actions? Not the good ones, mind you. I'm talking about the bad ones. I grew up, you know, and many years later, at a Christmas time family dinner, I finally admitted to being the one who pushed Roderick down the stairs and to coloring on the wall and signing Amy's name next to my drawings. I'm sure my mom knew it was me all along. I remember her shrugs when we all denied responsibility. "George did it. It must have been George."

George? He's the invisible troublemaker that lived with the Davies family. The one who killed the goldfish with shaving cream in the bowl. The one who put the matchbox cars under the wheels of the family station wagon. The one who ran through tar and then through the house. George.

Or, in the case of the current administration, George is George. As in Bush. As in, it's not our fault that the country is at war and the economy is in the tank. George did it.

And before that, it was Bill who did it. And before that, George again. See, it's the endless cycle. We all like to have someone else to blame, someone who is not us.

And that's why it was just plain funny when I got out the the shower and smelled Lincoln's poopy diaper. "Whoo-wee...you stink, Linc," I said.

"No, Maddox poopy diaper," he replied.

"No, buddy, Maddox isn't poopy. It's you. Maddox doesn't wear a diaper."

"No, Mommy poopy," was his answer.

Sure, Buddy. It must've been George.

*And as a side note, I almost called off my engagement to Stew when I found out he wanted to name his firstborn son George. Luckily, a daughter came first and then George sent him to war and his love affair with the name ended. Thank you, George!