Every parent in America is a hypocrite.

And, if they say they’re not, they’re being hypocritical.

We lived our own youth in a way that was equal parts innocent, fun-loving and half-daring. And we may’ve been involved in shenanigans that were a little off-color and dubious.

But take that same behavior and slap it on my own children…and they get an enormous helping of: “What in God’s name were you thinking?” followed by an extra-large take-out order of grounding.

My name is Maria, I’m a complete hypocrite.

Yes, I admit I punish my children for acts they commit that are questionable, even though honestly, I have committed those same acts in my own, befuddled youth.

Leafing through the same manual, but another chapter entirely, I’ve also discovered that I’ve since become a master-hypocrite in my current position as Domestic Architect, as well.

My youngest proclaims me a hypocrite so often that I’ve stopped taking offense and instead decided I’m impressed with his correct use of a word having more than one syllable.

And, as far as I can tell, he didn’t learn it from Modern Warfare 2. Score.

They’re right. There are too many hypocritical instances to list.

Last night, for example, my 12-year-old used the word “freaking” in a sentence. I was appalled. “That is a nasty word and it’s substituted for the other nasty word and you are not allowed to use it!”

“Mom! Are you serious? You not only say that word every time you’re on the phone, but you WRITE that word in your column, like, all the time!”

“Well, do as I say, not as I do!”

“I am doing what you say.”

Dammit.

I know I should lead by a better example. But … being me in perpetual denial … it’s hard.

Recently I was at a meeting where I sat next to a woman who snapped her gum so often and so ferociously, I thought she would surely dislocate her jaw.

I literally had to remove myself from her area to prevent myself from accosting her. When I relayed this later to my children, they all looked at each other out of the corner of their eyes.

“What?” I demanded.

“Mom! Do you ever listen to yourself when you have a mouthful of Dubble Bubble? Seriously? You sound like a cow chewing her cud!”

“Please. Incorrect. And I will give you five bucks right now if you can correctly identify the meaning of the word “cud’.”

“Listen, Old Lady, you’re a hypocrite. You snap your gum CONSTANTLY. It is so annoying, you have no idea!”

Well. Now I had an idea.

Who knew?

It’s like anything else in my life. If I’m not bothered by it, I assume no one else is either.

I exhibit premium hypocritical tendencies when my 15-year-old son loses his glasses. Since second grade we’ve been having the same conversation. “How can you lose something that you need to see?” I don’t get it!

However, last week, I was frantically stumbling around the Sanitarium, up to the attic, down to the basement, squawking, “Has ANYONE seen my glasses?”

They let me rotate around my little word in a fog of astigmatism and frustration until my 12-year-old dryly pointed out what should have been so obvious: the glasses were perched atop my head. And really, if I had a dollar for every time this happened, I could pay for the Lasik eye surgery I so desperately wanted.

So … why grit my teeth and reprimand my son for the same behavior? It’s just the way the ball bounces in Heckville.

Another hypo-hotbed issue is when anyone sings the words to a song loudly and incorrectly … it sends me further into a whirlpool of insanity.

I remember a time when I was ferrying my younger sister to her job at Friendly’s and she insisted on singing the song “My Eyes Adore You” (by that old favorite, Frankie Valli!) with the incorrect lyrics of “My Isadora.”

I became so irritated with her, I actually stopped the car and made her get out and walk the rest of the way to strawberry pies and hamburgers.

Not my proudest moment.

Alas, I can admit now, since I’m in hypo-recovery, I had a carful of my son’s friends held hostage yesterday and sang the words to the song “ Poker Face” robustly and with feeling.

Sadly, I thought it was “Polka Face.”

Shame on me. I should really put myself on time-out.

I hope I can see the error of my duplicitous ways before it’s too late and my children decide to host an intervention, and when that fails, make me get out of the car and walk the rest of the way to my assisted living facility.

There is a cure for hypocrisy and it is called self-awareness.

I’m working on it, I promise.

I’m reading up on the 12-step program designed to help people like me be more tolerant. I would read further except that I cannot find my FREAKING GLASSES!

They were just here, on my Polka Face. If you know where I may find them, please call.

I hope I can hear the phone ringing over all this gum snapping.

About the Author

Maria Heck covers for the Times Leader. Reach her at or .

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