Inadequacy

It seems that no matter what I have done or what I do, I feel inadequate at some point when reflecting on my accomplishments, or lack there of.
One of my mantras as a child was, "I don't know how". You've already read (well, maybe you didn't pay atteniton or skipped it) that Gerty didn't teach me how to swim. Well, nobody really seemed too interested in teaching me how to do anything after I was about one and a half. I think they tried so hard when I was in the initial stages of psychological and physical development and that I had made such nice progress that they assumed by the time I was one year old, I could pretty much figure out the rest on my own. The trouble is I never found out what "the rest" was. I am still not sure - over thirty years later. Nearly everything I do, no matter how many times I've done it or how many times I've watched other people do it, I feel like I'm doing it with my eyes closed and I have no idea how it's going to end.
Well. Now that I think about it, not nearly EVERYTHING. I suppose everyday things like picking your nose and finding just the right place to flick the booger, flipping open your cell phone, turning on the computer, flushing the toilet...those things come pretty naturally after a few tries. But maybe not. Take wiping your ass for example. It's not always easy. Sometimes it just goes quickly and boom, bam, you're done. Other times it takes FOREVER. Is it your lack of skill or coordination that makes it take so long or is it just that sometimes you've digested things a little too well? Perhaps this is only something that happens to me and you have no idea what I'm talking about. Oh, how embarassing, if that's the case. Perhaps you DO know what I'm talking about though. You'll have to admit that life throws you for a loop sometimes and it's very frustrating.
Wouldn't it have been great if we were instructed on just the right techniques for everything we have to do on a daily basis? Of course, most of us would have been mortified to take an ass-wiping class, as young children. But then again, it's better to get that kind of thing over with as younguns than to have to endure the humiliation as adults. Our collective solution has been to just ignore those details and continue making mistakes and living with the "skidmarks".
Speaking of skidmarks, my mother - we just celebrated Mother's Day yesterday - who is an angel and a beautiful person inside and out, was never much for housework. She hated it from the getgo and since I was the last born, I guess I saw her do the least of it. To show you the extent to which I believe I was deliberately not taught things as a child, I will tell you the story of the washing machine. It's not an interesting story, but it illustrates my point.

So, I'm eleven. The next youngest is Aldo, who is almost nineteen. My mother comes into the room we shared on a gloomy Saturday morning and announces this: "I'm not uh, doing your laundry any more." Then she leaves. That was it!
Can you believe that?
So, I look at my brother, who just shrugs his shoulders and puts his head back on the pillow.
I was horrified - dumbfoundedand for several seconds - and didn't know what to do. I looked over at Aldo who was already sound asleep and then I ran out of my bedroom and down the stairs after my mother who was eating an icepop. She was always eating icepops and in fact, she continues to eat them today. She eats them now the same way she did then - with the entire box wrapped under her left arm as she holds one icepop in her right hand and sucks the life out of it. She holds the box in case someome like Gertty comes along and tries to swipe the box.
It's not that she's greedy. Oh, she offers ices to others. She often insists that you "try one" because they're "delicious" but few take her up on her offers because she has a look on her face like those icepops are her most prized possessions and that they are literally giving her the breath of life. Who's going to take her breath of life??? Certainly not me. Anyway, I don't really like icepops too much.
So, back to the washing machine.
I chased down ma, pulled on her icepop box and looked her straight in the eye. She looked back at me and said, "Want an icepop? They're delicious." I ignored the offer. "Ma. how are my clothes gonna get washed?"
"With the machine", she almost innocently replied.
"But I have no idea how to use that machine, ma."
"Learn", is all she said back. Then she went in the back room to watch TV with her icepops.
Since then, I've been doing my own laundry. I've never really learned to do it well. My clothes never seem really clean and fresh.
I blame the system.