Two Nights at the Clarion

Actual online review (not mine) 

It was a warm Friday night in September, a game weekend —Homecoming, no less — and our son's fraternity Parents' Weekend. We'd been looking forward to this trip all year. It was our first Parents' Weekend and I wanted it to be special — and it was, but not for the reasons I'd imagined.

We'd just checked into the Quality Inn in Opelika, Alabama. Back in April, when I first looked for a hotel room, I was shocked by the prices. Auburn is a small college town —not a a major metropolitan area —and yet the hotels near campus were $400 a night or more! For those lucky enough to land a room at The Laurel Hotel & Spa in downtown Auburn, the weekend price-tag was upwards of $800 a night! The hotels with rooms available for under $500 a night were run-of-the-mill chain hotels with mediocre reviews. My frugal self could not justify spending $1000 on a hotel room for two nights in Auburn, Alabama. I checked nightly rentals and found nothing. Literally nothing available for that weekend within a 30 mile radius!

Finally, in desperation, I booked a room at the Quality Inn in Opelika 20 minutes from campus for $200 a night. The photos showed clean rooms, a nice swimming pool and the reviews weren't too scary. I thought, For $200 a night, how bad could it be?

I'm not a hotel snob. I've stayed at my share of budget hotels. All I expect is that the room be clean and quiet and the bed, reasonably comfortable. Let's just say the very name of the Quality Inn over-promised. There were cigarette burn holes in the bedspread. The toilet, tub and shower were chipped and stained. The commode wobbled when you sat down. At 5 p.m. we  could already hear other guests partying in the rooms above us, and just outside our door, pick-up trucks revved their engines as they sped through the motel's parking lot. 

"It's okay!" my husband said as he poked a finger through one of the bedspread holes. "Let's just keep a sense of humor about it. Look at this way, we're making memories!"

"These are not exactly the memories I wanted to make this weekend!" I grumbled.

I tried to laugh but all I could think about was that we were paying $200 a night to stay at a dump that was a 20 minute drive to campus. Surely there had to be somewhere else we could stay. 

While my husband relaxed from our travels, I walked outside to check options on my phone. I looked online and saw a King room available at the Clarion Inn and Suites near the university center. It was $300 a night but it looked much more amenable than our current surroundings. Maybe we could change hotels? I'd already provided my credit card to the Quality Inn and it was well beyond the cancelation deadline. Was it worth eating a night's stay at the Quality Inn in order to change hotels? 

On my way to the building where we checked in, I walked past the pool. Online it looked so inviting that I packed my swimsuit. In reality no one had been swimming in that pool for a very long time. And just in case guests might not understand the lack of water in the pool as an indication to keep out, the yellow police crime scene tape around the gates sent a loud-and-clear message. 

"Just keep your sense of humor," I told myself.

As I entered the check-in area to approach the lady working at the front desk, I smiled broadly and mustered my most cordial Southern attitude. I was prepared to make a case for how the hotel misrepresented its condition online in order to get out of our reservation, but it wasn't necessary. 

Without a beat, the desk clerk said, "Honey, don't worry about it. I wouldn't spend the night at this place!" 

Keeping our sense of humor at the Clarion. 

She typed something into her computer and handed me a receipt confirming she hadn't charged our credit card. I thanked her profusely and ran back to our room to pack up. 

By now it was time to head to the Sig Tau house for the Friday night reception. On our drive to pick up our son, Jack, from his condo, I confirmed our reservation at the Clarion. 

On the website the rooms looked bright, neat and clean. The photos showed a hot hotel breakfast buffet complete with a make-your-own-waffle machine, included in the $300 per night cost. It was much closer to Jack's condo, too. I quickly scanned the reviews and saw a few that were less than glowing. But people are always quick to share negative experiences, right? I set aside my concerns. After all, for $300 a night, how bad could it be?

We spent a pleasant evening at the Sig Tau house as Jack gave us the tour and introduced us to his fraternity brothers and their parents. After the meet-and-greet, we picked up Chinese food and headed back to Jack's condo to share a late dinner. It was a fun evening, and after a long day of travel, we were ready to turn in. It was after 10 p.m. before we drove into the parking lot of the Clarion.

"This looks MUCH better!" my husband said. "Good call!"

Nothing says, "Welcome!"
like a torn front desk placemat. 

But our opinion quickly shifted when we stepped into the lobby and breathed in the distinct aroma of cigarette smoke. As I initialed the registration form, I noticed the plastic that covered the welcome placemat was yellowed and ripped. "When your business is going places, our business is you!" it promised. Suffice to say, my first impression was not favorable, but I tried to keep an optimistic, open mind. 

For $300 a night, how bad could the room be? 

The Auburn Clarion Inn and Suites was built in 1970. When it opened its doors, its soaring two-story glass reception building must have the scene of many weddings and celebrations. But like any 52 year old who doesn't subscribe to routine maintenance, it was showing its age. Unfortunately for us — and the many other guests who were unlucky enough to assume that paying $300 a night for a hotel room meant having a clean, safe, fully operational and hygienic place to stay —the hotel's lobby was still it's best feature.

The King room we were given reeked of a combination of decades of cigarette smoke, pet urine, and mildew. We immediately returned to the front desk to see if another room was available. 

"The hotel is completely full," Evan, the manager, said. "The only other room we have has two double beds." 

With only a spattering of vehicles in the parking lot of the 200+ room hotel it seemed improbable that the place was sold out. But by this time, we were exhausted and just wanted to get a good night's sleep. Maybe we had been given a "bad" room? After all we were paying $300 a night! 

The second room was better — but only by a lessened whiff of wet dog. There were cracks in the walls. The carpets were stained from five decades of God only knows what. We left the door open rather than inhale the noxious stale second-hand smoke. We didn't even bring in our bags for fear that the odor would permanently permeate our clothing. When I turned on the faucet to wash my hands, fruit flies swarmed my face. Even they were trying to escape this room! It was so bad, that it was indeed memorable — and I couldn't help but laugh. 

"I'm so sorry, honey," I said. "I didn't think I'd long for the Quality Inn, but room this is worse!"

My dear husband looked at me and said, "There's only one way I can sleep here ... "

We left the hotel, drove straight to a nearby liqueur store and returned with a very nice bottle of rye and a bag of ice. Too late, we realized the Clarion didn't provide glasses. So we sat on the metal steps that led to the second floor of this sad hotel and sipped Whistle Pig from translucent plastic cups. 

For the past two years, my husband and I have road-tripped together almost non-stop. We've stayed at beautiful resorts along the Sea of Cortez (for much less than $300 a night.) And we've stopped at our share of roadside motels and hotels. We've experienced many unforgettable adventures along the way, but this terrible, terrible excuse for lodging in the middle of Alabama was perhaps the most memorable we'd had to date.

It's easy to have a great time when you're staying at a 5-star resort, but to find the joy in a place like the Auburn Clarion Inn is, well, quite a feat. And yet, that's what my dear husband proceeded to do. I loved my him dearly before this experience, but his ability to find the humor and lightness amid this squalor made me admire him even more. 

Somehow we managed to get a good night's sleep in that awful hotel room, despite it's acrid smell. Unlike the Quality Inn, it was quiet — another indication that the manager's boast about the hotel being full was not exactly honest. We were grateful for rest and as we showered that morning we laughed as the tub filled up around our ankles and made an awful gargling noise when it finally drained. In the light of day, the room was even worse. We dressed quickly and set out to find a decent cup of coffee. 

Just down the road, Starbucks was our savior and just beyond the Starbucks, we spied a gleaming beacon of hope with a carefully manicured lawn and sparkling clean facade called the TownePlace Suites. I looked up the hotel online. No vacancies. But maybe, just maybe they had a cancelation? Miracles happen. It was worth a shot. 

"My husband and I are here for our son's parent's weekend and we're staying at a place down the road that's really awful," I explained to Bianca, the friendly manager. "I was wondering if you might have had a cancelation for tonight."

"Oh sweet Jesus, you're staying at the Clarion!?" Bianca exclaimed. "Let me see what I can do!"

It wasn't lost on me that I hadn't mentioned the name of the hotel. How many desperate travelers had staggered into Bianca's lobby after a Clarion experience?

Bianca told me she'd just heard from a guest who might be checking out early. She took my number and promised to call as soon as she confirmed one way or the other. The TownePlace charged $429/night but Bianca said she'd give us a break on the room (to $369) if it became available. I thanked her profusely and skipped to the car to tell my husband the hopeful news. 

The rest of the day, we had a great time. While Jack attended the game, we walked around campus and went to lunch before meeting him at the Sig Tau house afterwards. Periodically, I checked my phone to see if I missed Bianca's call. Finally, a local number popped up. I stepped away from the fraternity Corn Hole tournament to hear her say: "I'm so sorry. That guest decided to stay since Auburn won the game."

By that time, we'd perused other hotel listings in the area. The only options were budget hotels with negative reviews and even bigger price tags! For $400 a night, how bad could a Fairfield Inn be?  We decided not to find out and resigned ourselves to spend one more memorable night at the Clarion. 

Talking with other parents that day, we heard similar stories about over-priced, terrible hotels. But the Clarion was definitely on the the bottom of the heap. I managed to pick the worst hotel in Auburn — and we still had a great time. 

Checking out on Sunday morning, we were greeted by the hotel's manager, Evan. 

"How was your stay?" he said, cheerfully. "Would you like a breakfast-to-go bag?" 

He lifted a brown paper lunch sack and smiled. 

"No thanks," my husband said. "I'd rather not take anything with us from this hotel."

A confused look crossed Evan's face as we began to recount all the issues with our $300 room. He began typing our complaints into his computer to "record them for management." It was as though he hadn't heard about any of these problems even though there were dozens of recent reviews that reiterated the same tragic flaws. 

"We're trying to keep a good attitude about this," my husband said. "But I wonder how this hotel chain could in good conscious charge $300 a night for a room that's so run down?"

"I'm sure you know the rooms look nothing like the photos you advertise online," I added. "Would you like to see the photos I took of our room? I have video of the fruit flies."

Evan shook his head and apologized profusely. Then he offered to reduce our rate to $150 a night, which we gratefully accepted. (BTW, it took a week and a call to our Visa company for the credit to actually show up on our account.) Even $150 a night was still way too much to pay (on non-game nights, that same Clarion Hotel charges $59/night) but somehow it felt like a "win" because my husband and I had worked through a difficult situation together and kept a sense of humor.

That morning, we picked up Jack and his roommate to take them out to breakfast. Over eggs and hash browns and waffles, we regaled them with our Clarion story. I gazed at my husband with a renewed sense of appreciation. I was so very grateful to be married to a man who could make a terrible situation fun. Certainly the Clarion was disgusting and it took several days to get the stench of the room out of our hair and clothing, but if we had stayed at the super-luxurious $800/night Laurel Hotel in Auburn, would we have had such a memorable weekend? I mean, for $800 a night, how good could it be?

PS: The following are just a few of the bad reviews recently posted about the Clarion Inn & Suites at Auburn on the Choice Hotels app. Wish I had read (and believed) them sooner! 

Taking My Bike for a Walk: Lessons in Love & Mountain Biking

I’m taking my mountain bike for a walk. It is a beautiful day so why not take my bike for a walk? Oh, but you ask, "Aren't you supposed to be riding that bike, not walking alongside it?" Yes, of course ... and let me explain why I chose to walk my bike. There's a lot more to this story.

I wouldn't be mountain biking (MTBing) in Moab, Utah in the middle of a desert, risking life and limb if not for love— and true love at that. I’m not just learning to mountain bike at age 59. I’m learning to love —really love —with all the risks and hazards that come with it. 

I knew my (now) husband was serious about me when he outfitted me with a MTB and all the appropriate accouterment. But all the love and cool gear in the world could not transform a scaredy cat novice rider into a MTBing badass. 

I grew up on a small farm outside Little Rock, Arkansas, and my first bike was a rusty single-speed cruiser handed down from my three older sisters. I taught myself to ride in the cow pasture behind our house. While other kids did wheelies on their Huffys with their bright colored tassels and banana seats, I gingerly steered my rusted cruiser up and down a dead end street. I fell down a lot. Fifty years later, I was finally learning how to ride off-road.

I had a lot to learn. I received great advice from mountain biking enthusiasts. "Always look ahead to anticipate what’s coming next. If you're staring down at the rock right in front of you, you’re going to hit it!" 

Focusing on my future also seemed like a good life lesson that I had somehow missed in my first 58 years on the planet. I had more than my share of romantic mishaps that left my heart bruised and broken. In many ways, I was starting my life over. When my MTB-loving man came along, I projected on him the negative experiences of my past. I was so fearful of falling (in love) I tried to mash on the brakes and play it safe. 

Fortunately, my guy was confident in me (and very patient) both on and off the trail. On our first ride together, he took me to a single track where parents bring their toddlers to learn to ride. I had one objective: Do not crash. 

Within the first five minutes as I tried to navigate my bike between two large boulders, I hit a pedal against the stone and lost my balance. Aside from a scraped knee, I was unscathed, but for the rest of the ride, I dismounted and walked my bike around any obstacle that looked the least bit intimidating. 

"You're a strong rider," my guy said. "You’re just overthinking it. If you let it, the bike will roll right over that rocky terrain and do most of the work.”

I wanted to believe him, but somewhere deep inside I feared that he was being way too kind and optimistic. I continued to ride on the paved Moab Canyon Pathway near our home. Each time, I felt a little stronger and more confident. I was proud of my improvement as I learned how to shift gears and adjust the dropper post seat. A few weeks later, when friends came to ride the Moab trails, I thought I was ready to join in the fun. 

On the first trail (the warm up) I managed the single track without too much trepidation. Then, we went to a more advanced area. It was still considered a beginner course, but to me the “flowy” dips and turns appeared steep and scary. I huffed to the top of the first incline, took one look down the descent — and completely lost my nerve. I panicked. 

“I can’t do it!” I cried. “Go on without me!”

As the group pedaled off, I dismounted, turned the bike around and slowly walked it back to the parking lot. I wanted to ride, but in that moment of frustration and humiliation, I gave up. 

Back at our van, I secured my bike on its rack, removed my clunky black biking shoes, and stripped off my gloves and helmet. Now what? I couldn’t just sit alone and wait, so I put on my hiking shoes and trudged up a hill to try to find some perspective. 

At first, I felt sorry for myself. Then I beat myself up for a lifetime of insecurities and ineptitudes. Why did I ever think I could learn to MTB at my age? As I looked out over the desert valley, I knew somewhere my guy and our friends were riding and having a great time. I started to sob. 

The desert is a good place to take your sorrows and your fears. It's quiet and non-judgmental, but not particularly compassionate. It will swallow your petty concerns in a heartbeat. Tears evaporate quickly.

Far above me, a hawk effortlessly circled on the wind current. I took a deep breath and let go of my shame. I prayed for grace and guidance for what to do next. When the answer came it was so subtle and obvious that it made me laugh out loud: "If you want to ride, get back on your bike and practice. Do it for yourself and no one else. Just practice!” 

I ran down the hill back to the van, lifted my bike from its rack and changed back into my biking gear. Then I pedaled to the warm-up trail and I road it again. This time, it felt a little easier, and I stayed on my bike for the entirety of the single track. 

I was about to turn around and pedal back to the van when I saw my guy and our friends at the top of the next hill. My MTB-loving man grinned at me and waved. I waved back, got on my bike to ride up to meet him, and … immediately toppled over. My laughter floated across the arid landscape and settled in my heart. I could do this — it would just take practice.

More than six months later, I’m still practicing. I’m also still losing my balance and sometimes losing my nerve, but I have discovered a love of MTBing that I never imagined I’d possess. I love how I can propel myself into the wilderness and explore the natural world. Most of all, I love that MTBing has taught me to be more present with all my fears and to be kinder to myself when facing them. 

We recently traveled to Baja for the winter, and my bike has become my constant companion on the beautiful Mexican trails. When I hit a point on the single track where the trail is too technical, I dismount and take my bike for a walk. But whenever I’m uncertain about a segment of trail — or any other new experience — I hear the subtle voice that guided me in Moab, “Do it for yourself and no one else. Just practice.” And each time I ride, I become a little more skillful — a bit braver. 

Grazing at Night

A loud bang issues from the front porch. For a moment, there is complete quiet and then, the jangle of brass bells — specifically cow bells. In the distance a dog howls and then the desert swallows all sound except for the jangle of a single brass cow bell on the neck of a long-horned bovine I call Bossy. 

The bottle rocket launcher is none other than my husband. We are living in a rented house in the mountains above the Sea of Cortez in a fishing village turned kite boarding haven, called LaVentana, which means The Window. 

Right now, outside our bedroom window, Bossy and her herd have stopped to feast on whatever vegetation they can find. Life can't be easy for a cow in the desert. And yet, they survive.

My husband brought me to this beautiful place to live before and after our wedding. We were born in Little Rock just three days apart in the same Catholic hospital in 1962. We dated during our final months of our senior year in high school in 1981. I fell in love with him on a warm spring night, staring up at the stars, kissing, and sharing our hopes for the future. 

One evening I told him of my long-held dream to become a writer. It was a romantic aspiration and one that I had little idea of how to accomplish, except to attend a liberal arts college and major in English Literature. And although he had less idea of what it meant to become a writer than I did at that time, he encouraged me to pursue my dreams because that's how he was then — and still is today.

I'm not sure why we parted ways after graduation. It was as though our paths were meant to intersect for that moment in time before life hurtled us off in differing directions. Somewhere along the line the desire for security got in the way of my dream. I decided to get a "real job" and set aside my romantic ideals. It would take 40 years for our paths to cross again ... which leads me back to Bossy and the bottle rockets and life in Mexico. At night —when we're not shooing free range bovine from our yard—my husband and I stare up at the stars and experience the same wonder we felt when we were 18.

I fell in love with Mexico in 1995 when I quit my job at Turner Broadcasting to focus on my writing. 

I was single, living in Atlanta and flying to New York and Los Angeles for work on a regular basis. But, while I was successful in my career, I felt unfulfilled. I didn't set out to become a marketing maven for a burgeoning television entity. Advertising and marketing were ways I applied my creative talent. But the more successful I became, the further away from the actual creating I got. By the time I arrived at Turner I was directing copywriters — not writing. I spent five years there climbing the corporate ladder, but never quite feeling aligned with my career. I began to entertain thoughts of a leisurely exit from my corporate gig. I even went so far as to par down my living expenses, pay off debt, and sock away as much money as possible in anticipation of a major lifestyle change. I told myself that in a few years I'd make my move. By then, I'd be ready.

A few months later, I boarded a flight to New York to attend some business meetings. As the plane rolled back from the gate, the gentle rocking motion lulled me to sleep. When I awoke, the cabin was dark and we were at cruising altitude. In that moment of first consciousness, I was given clarity that I have rarely had in my life. A single thought pierced all others: "You need to quit your job NOW."  I knew right then that the only way I could get my dream back on track was to quit Turner and focus on my writing. I returned from that trip and resigned to become a freelance writer. (Yes, I YOLO'ed 26 years before YOLO was YOLO.)

My bravado didn't last. A few weeks after I resigned, I was filled with self-doubt. What had I done!? Was I crazy?! I didn't know how to freelance. How would I survive?

That night I had the most vivid dream I've ever experienced. A sapling was growing out of the crook of my elbow. I watched in terror as it sprouted bright green leaves. I reached down to grab it, thinking I could rid myself of the alien invader with one painful tug. But before I could touch the tendrils I heard a voice sternly say, "Stop! You can't yank it out! It's your creativity!" 

I woke with a start, filled with awe and resolve. Maybe I was crazy for leaving my job but I knew I couldn't pursue my writing if I didn't take a leap of faith. I decided to  set aside my worry and follow my instincts. Later that month, when I heard about an artists' community in central Mexico called San Miguel de Allende, I decided to travel there as a way to transition from one life to the next. And that's just what I did.

Now as I once again transition from one life to another, it seems fitting to find myself writing in Mexico. It is a simpler place, a warmer place, a place where life moves at its own easy rhythm. I'm still not sure what it is I'm supposed to write about or why I've been given this incredible opportunity. 

My son is in college and no longer requires his Mommy to cheer along his every accomplishment or encourage him past disappointments. My professional life consists of piecing together a living from scraps of freelance assignments that fall from the tables of large agencies. The world is filled with young writers who blog and vlog their every thought. Has the world passed me by —or just the opposite? Have I finally arrived?

In many ways, as I approach age 60, I feel like I did when I was a senior in high school, when the world was fresh and new and filled with possibility. And like that idealistic 18 year old, I still entertain romantic aspirations of where my writing might lead me. Perhaps it's enough that my writing has led me to this beautiful place with the man I love. 

I may never achieve the fame and fortune I dreamed of long ago. I might not even help inspire someone else by sharing my stories as I hoped to do when I started this blog in 2010. Is it enough to be content to graze on life's experience without ever knowing what —if any —purpose it serves? If cows can survive roaming the arid hills of Mexico, surely I can find my way. 

I'm the Bad Guy

The day my son left for his sophomore year of college I rented a van to help him move. Together we packed up remnants of our shared past: a painted chest of drawers I bought at a yard sale in Atlanta when I was 30, the green velvety sofa his father and I purchased for our first home, the bar stools I acquired for my kitchen island after our divorce. Along with two decades of parenting, we also loaded up a new memory foam mattress, Ikea desks, and some very heavy boxes containing a platform bed. There were dishes, pots and pans, clothing, and electronics, too. It all fit in the van — just barely. A few hours later, we arrived at the condo he'd share with two buddies, and we unloaded it all into his room. 

This is where my "white glove" services ended. 

I didn't carefully place the new mattress pad and sheet set on my son's new memory foam mattress. I didn't scrub his tub and hang up his shower curtain. I didn't help him put together the new bed frame or the Ikea desk. Because, in case you didn't know, my son is almost 20 years old and  ... I'm The Bad Guy.

While his roommates moms tidied drawers, tucked in bed covers, and put dishes in the cupboards, I stepped over his unpacked boxes and took my son to lunch. I spent our remaining time together talking to him like the almost-adult person that he is. We chatted about why he opted to take Chinese this semester and the challenges he faced with his online business. 

Before we parted that day, I told him how proud I was of him. I didn't leave him with a list of to-do's nor did I follow up with text messages about how he should turn down the thermostat to avoid running up the electric bill. Remember, in this story, I'm The Bad Guy. 

Three weeks later, he called to tell me that a fraternity brother ran into the front end of his car. After he assured me that no one was hurt, I listened with compassion, acknowledged that the fender bender sucked, and then reminded him that this is what insurance is for and that he had an app on his phone to make the claim. 

Later that day, the mother of the near-adult who ran into my son's car reached out and sent me all her insurance information. I calmly told her thank you — and then forwarded the information onto my near-adult son to manage. The next day, when my son asked me to call the insurance company to initiate the claim because he was "really busy," I said, "I know you can handle it." I wasn't being callous. I'm just The Bad Guy.

For those of you who don't know him, my near-adult son is smart enough to set up his own LLC, purchase and resell merchandise, and establish a lucrative online business. He's a pre-law major and quite adept at communicating. I was confident he could manage a call to the insurance company and following up on the claim so his beloved car could be repaired.

It's not easy to watch your child falter or have a bad day. But experts (including my therapist) assure me that it can actually be harmful to swoop in and right every boo-boo long after your kids are of an age where they can fend for themselves. 

Like many parents, I've struggled with my Bad Guy status, because where there's a Bad Guy, there's a Good Guy. If your spouse, ex-spouse, or co-parent is always perceived as the Good Guy, that makes your role as Bad Guy that much worse. 

When my son's father and I divorced, I soon found myself accepting The Bad Guy mantel. I insisted that our son complete his homework before he went out to play. I encouraged him to eat vegetables and home-cooked meals — even though he preferred Chic-Fil-A (who doesn't?!). I took him to the Buddhist Center so he could learn about spirituality. I made sure baths were taken nightly and bedtime rituals were kept. I also “grounded” him from using his phone when he broke the rules, and I lectured him about the importance of not waiting until the last minute to do his homework. Usually I wasn’t very skillful or particularly nice about how I reprimanded my child. Yep. I was The Bad-Guy.

Now that my "child" is almost 20, I have new reasons to keep my Bad Guy status.  

There's plenty of data that indicates "snowplowing" (as it is commonly known) your almost-adult child's every concern is detrimental to their wellbeing in the long run. And yet, in a 2019 poll by The New York Times and Morning Consult, 75 percent of parents of children ages 18 to 28 had made appointments for their adult children, like for doctor visits or haircuts, and had reminded them of deadlines for school. Eleven percent said they would contact their child’s employer if their child had an issue. Sixteen percent of those with children in college had texted or called them to wake them up so they didn’t sleep through a class or test. Eight percent had contacted a college professor or administrator about their child’s grades or a problem they were having.

Hovering and smothering keeps young adults from learning from their mistakes, which ultimately will helps them cope with life's ups and downs. There's some evidence that snowplowing can actually cause greater anxiety and distress in young adults because they lack the ability to handle basic conflicts, failures, and emotional challenges. 

So as hard as it is to be separated from my only child, I'm doubling down on my Bad Guy claim. I'm not a jerk. I am proudly The Bad Guy and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm a mom who tries her best not to hover and resolve all my almost grown-up son's problems. And sometimes I screw up and try to micromanage him — which is not nearly as pretty or effective as it sounds. 

When the opportunity arose for me to fall in love and travel with a wonderful man, I didn't agonize (too much) about the impact my physical absence might have on my son's life. If I'm The Bad Guy for moving forward with my life, for not sitting around an empty house waiting for my son to bring his dirty laundry home, then so be it!  Do I feel guilty and selfish that I'm not an old-fashioned mom who sacrifices everything for her child? Yes, at times. Do I also feel proud of my son for being independent, resilient, and determined even after life has handed him some crappy situations? Absolutely! 

It would be so easy for me to try to compensate for those circumstances, but try though I might, I will never be able to undo his wounds. The best I can do is love him without condition, be present for him when we're together, and hold him accountable for his actions. I do hope that one day he learns to make his own bed  and perhaps even eat a vegetable every now and then (but I'm not holding my breath about the latter), because, you know ... I'm the Bad Guy.