If Only . . .

If only . . .

If only I hadn't taken the bus that day . . .

If only it hadn't rained . . .

If only I had studied harder in undergrad . . .

If only I hadn't squandered my twenties . . .

If only . . .

You've probably said it to yourself many times.  I have.  Everyone does.  

We wonder aloud, "If only she had been there sooner".

We rant, "If only I hadn't married him".

We repent, "If only I had been nicer to her".  

What is somewhat less common, however, is to hear an "if only" with an "you" instead of an "I".

I had one of those thrown at me the other day, and I am still reeling from it, due largely, I think to the source.

"If only you had married better, you could stay home with me".  

What?

And yes, you guessed it - Janet was the accuser.  Apparently, I have been a failure from the beginning, and her father never really made it past the starting gate, either. 

After I recovered from the initial shock of this, I asked her just what she meant by "marrying better".  She responded that I should have married someone who made enough money so that I didn't have to work. . .  The unspoken second part of that sentence, was, of course,  " . . . and then you could stay home and (choose one): (a) there would not be mountains of laundry in various states of cleanliness in every room of the house; (b) your children would not have to go to the "After School Program" with the unwashed masses; (c) dinner would not come out of the microwave or the slow cooker 5 nights a week; or (d) you would generally be a better mother.  

It was pretty clear.  I wondered fleetingly where she got this notion.  We don't watch any television shows with this theme, and our friends with kids are in two-working-parent situations or single-parent situations.  I asked her what brought this on.  She shrugged and suggested that it was obvious.  

I thought, if only . . .  

If only I had taken a shorter maternity leave . . .

If only I had paid more attention to what she read or watched on television . . .

If only I had insisted that her aunties and uncles NOT buy tiaras for her. . .

If only I wasn't such a failure as a mother . . .

The hardest part, I thought, would be bringing up the whole thing with Arnold.  I didn't want him to question too deeply his decision to study rocks instead of, say, anatomy or obstetrics. When I raised it, though, he seemed surprisingly unsurprised and not offended or hurt in the least. 

"That's our princess," he said with a shrug, and went back to his book.

Yes, that's her.

If only I didn't sort of enjoy being such a failure . . .