As I’ve mentioned before, drinks on the deck is our family’s daily message to Maggie—we are here, we are outside, and you can’t drive us away. Beyond the performative aspect of drinks on the deck, we also enjoy it. This last weekend Calvin had ordered oysters, so we (except Wyatt, who is afraid of bivalves) ate our oysters and drank our drinks, and everyone piled on me.

They agreed that I am overly self-loathing. Is this a criticism that adolescent children should level at their only mother? Sure, Calvin can hold that opinion, but the kids? Frankly, Daisy is the teenage girl. I should be criticizing her the way my mother criticized me: “When you wear your hair over your eyes, it’s like you hate yourself. It’s really hard to watch.”

I don’t say things like that to Daisy, and she doesn’t wear her hair over her eyes, but she very candidly told me to not be so mean to myself. I agree with that. I really do.

But in the middle of the night, when I wonder if that noise I’m hearing is just outside, passing street noise or Maggie and the infernal warbling of Paul McCartney, I start to suspect what they call self-loathing I call being clear-eyed.

You see, there is a very good chance that I am responsible for Maggie and her crazy attacks. I have made several serious mistakes in my life—and I continue to make mistakes every day—any of which is deserving of punishment.

What my family chooses to see this as self-loathing I see for what it is: punishment.

I search backwards and find (easily) so many instances where I had a choice of actions, and I chose the wrong thing. For example, I was rude to too many people too often—in everyday New York life, if a person was socially out of line and it pissed me off, I would tell them what’s what (only if I was pretty sure they wouldn’t punch me). Once I almost tripped a woman, accidentally on purpose, in the Grand Army Plaza subway station because she kind of muscled me aside as we were about to descend some stairs. I stepped on the back of her shoe like I didn’t know what I was doing, and she almost toppled down the stairs. She didn’t, and I stopped flat-tiring people accidentally on purpose.

But that’s not all. I stole the boyfriend of my first real friend at college in the first week of college. In the first week. That’s what I did five days into college. What the hell was wrong with me?

Other things: I never liked breast feeding—the baby was finally out of my person and I wanted a little me time.

I have never been a vegetarian. Once, also freshman year of college, I said I was a vegetarian all day until dinner rolled around and I ordered a cheeseburger.

I laughed in the face of a guy who said he liked me, also the first year of college. I had a bad first year of college.

I am sometimes emotionally manipulative.

Not only have I made poor decisions, I have been the recipient of incredible good fortune. The cat, Nemesis, chose me as her special friend. I am the central person to this cat for no reason. I do not deserve this grave and beautiful honor.

The cat, who knows no other cat because she drove away her sister cat because of an unfortunate hair cut, picked me to be her person. Very regularly the cat must lie on my chest and breathe my breath and just be together. This required cat time is an honor. Anyone who loves cats knows the scope of the honor.

That one, the cat one, on its own is too much good fortune and clearly I have been given gifts I do not deserve and forgiven sins I couldn’t help committing and now it is time to pay the piper, and the piper is Maggie.