In preparation for sending my little princess off to college (26 more days), I was reviewing the whole financial scenario and a tree’s worth of paperwork.

My brother was visiting, ostensibly to see how I was doing, but realistically, he just wanted a cookie. Pig.

Anyway – I was lamenting the state of college loans and droning on about need-based vs. reality-based situations. Reminiscing, I commented to him, “I didn’t pay-off my loans until I was 34 years-old. Can you imagine?”

He snorted, with his mouth full of my food, “Listen. What I can’t imagine is why you would spend all that money on an education and just throw it away to be a mother.”

He apparently misunderstood my icy silence for an invitation to further pilfer through my refrigerator. He went on, oblivious, “I don’t get it! Millions of women spend tens of thousands of dollars to educate themselves, then they graduate, start a career and before you know it – they chuck it all once they have a baby. Weird.”

I looked at him with my jaw clenched in a way that I was sure my root canal just pole-vaulted to a nasal cavity. “I am going to punch you right in the face. I really am.”

“Wow,” he sputtered. “You’ve never talked to me like that before.”

“Wow,” I spit. “You’ve never made me feel like a useless piece of stale bread before.”

“Listen … I didn’t mean YOU per se. I was talking GENERALLY … you know, like … generally.”

“No, YOU LISTEN. I’ve worked every day of my freaking life since I was 14 years-old. I ‘m not sure you can say the same, because I don’t think ‘altar boy’ or ‘motorcycle rider’ counted as a job. Also - I worked after college for years before I became a mother. ADDITIONALLY, I worked after I had children, full-time I might add, until a few years ago. So tell me again – how did I waste my education, idiot-brother-with-a-death-wish?”

“Ummm … okay … I see I hit a nerve. I’ll just grab this brownie and take off …”

Oh, I was so mad at him and for a moment was transported back to the days when I fought with him after he drew anatomically correct body parts on my Barbies or taunted me with the nickname of Moon Maid (a Dick Tracy cartoon character) because I’ve always been a little … pasty. All that was missing was me giving him a wedgie and screaming na-na-na-na-na out the door.

Had he not run away like a scared little bunny, I would’ve explained that neither my education nor my career has gone to waste. I utilize nuggets gleaned from my past existence every damn day. In fact, my career in advertising has well prepared me for my life as a mother.

Advertising is the art of tweaking the truth.

I lie constantly to make things appear more appetizing than they are: “Of course that’s spaghetti sauce! Do you honestly think I’d use ketchup on that ziti instead of spaghetti sauce? Heck, no!”

(Heck, yes, I did).

Like a good ad campaign, I phrase things in a more attractive, gentle manner so they will do what I say without even realizing it: “The dentist is only going to review your dental work, son. She’ll just delicately prod your gums. You’ll never know she’s fixing-up those seven cavities. Trust me.”

I admit it, this doesn’t work for long. Just the first visit actually. And, the hyperventilation, sobbing and vomiting on the way home is my punishment.

As in marketing, I gingerly negotiate on a level akin to CIA training. “I will give you money to rent an Xbox game if you scoop the poop from the driveway, the yard and the neighbor’s front lawn. In addition, I will consider not grounding you for the sardines thrown from the third floor window if you scrub the bathroom floor and dust the baseboards. And, just because I’m feeling generous today, I might feed you and let you sleep in a nice, comfortable bed tonight.”

The old “bait and switch” in advertising is alive and well in the Heck home.

Just yesterday I bought both generic Frosted Flakes and Fruit Loops and poured them into the boxes of their identical twin name brands. You say sneaky, I say sly as a fox. Well … like advertising headlines everywhere, I say what I need to say to make my audience satisfied.

To my oldest child: “I love you best.”

To my middle child: “I love you best.”

To my baby: “I love you best.”

To my husband: “I’d love you best if you picked-up your underwear off the bathroom floor every day.”

See my point?

Sure, I don’t put on my cute suits and wear stockings anymore (they’ve been replaced with a straight jacket and tube socks), but I still, on a more sub-professional level, use skills stolen from my past life every day.

My brother is a boob.

But it’s almost not his fault. It’s how most men the world over have been hard-wired. They’re clueless as to what it takes for us to put our careers on pause in order to enter into a more lofty and important position of Domestic Architect.

He doesn’t realize I’ve traded one for the other with the greatest of ease and the absence of any regret whatsoever.

I can be a mother with both hands tied behind my back and duct tape over my mouth. Let’s see him try that.

He doesn’t even know how to separate his own laundry and talk on the phone at the same time. But he can, with great finesse, steal my food and torture me well into adulthood.

Na-na-na-na-na.

About the Author

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

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