BUCKING THE SYSTEM: HOME OWNERSHIP RETEACHES LESSONS OF YOUTH

If I were to look up the word "responsible" in the dictionary, they'd define it and slap a picture of my mother and sister beside it. My picture and my dad's, on the other hand, would appear next to the same word ... as an example of an antonym in a thesaurus.

I've never been considered the responsible one in the family.

My parents trusted me to keep myself and my sister alive if they needed to leave the house for short periods when we were little, and they gave me my first car when I turned 16, but there were plenty of restrictions to help keep me honest.

To tell the truth, I needed the rules that went along with my teen-age years. Rules are dreaded, vile things to teen-agers, but they lend structure and support and balance to our lives at a time when we are desperately seeking them.

I needed someone to tell me "do not leave Charleston city limits in that car." Otherwise I might have taken my hooptiemobile God knows where, only to have to call my parents after the thing refused to start (or stop, depending upon the day).

I needed someone to tell me "curfew with both feet in the door is at 11 p.m. -- period." Otherwise, who knows what late-night melees I would have gotten into in my quest for something to DO.

I needed someone to tell me "sex is not an option and will not make you popular." Otherwise, I might have been like so many other girls were in Charleston and had my first child at 15 instead of 25.

I was the one girls with stricter parents than mine called when they wanted to get out of the house on weekends. "Tam, you've got to do it because you know they'll let me go with you," they'd say.

Sadly enough, they were right. The rules established by my parents gave me the appearance of responsibility as a teen-ager, and other parents allowed their children to go out with me because they assumed I was responsible.

Little did they know I was just a big ole scairdy cat who knew just how much to bend her parents' dictates without breaking them entirely.

I think my parents knew they could only trust me as far as I could be thrown. I'm too much like my dad -- a free-loving spirit who works hard, plays harder, and believes consequences can be dealt with when tomorrow comes.

My sister, on the other hand, is more like our mom. Both of them are the ones to call when you need someone to keep track of money, send the relatives greeting cards and call the in-laws on special holidays.

In fact, if I were to look up the word "responsible" in the dictionary, they'd define it and slap a picture of my mother and sister beside it. My picture and my dad's, on the other hand, would appear next to the same word ... as an example of an antonym in a thesaurus.

Even so, I think I'm getting the hang of this responsibility thing. Much like other irresponsible people who become adults and breadwinners, I'm becoming more accountable because there are people whose lives now depend upon my actions.

That alone hasn't converted me, though. I know plenty of people who have families whom I wouldn't ask to watch my chia pet, let alone anything I truly love. No, what is converting me is my desire for grown-up things, like a nice house and car.

There's nothing like buying a home to make you want to beat yourself for acting irresponsibly in the past. Those indiscretions are especially notable on things like credit reports, which demonstrate each and every time you decided to take a road trip and pay your credit card bill next month.

Although I still equate expiration dates and shutoff notices with due dates more often than I should, I think I'm doing much better than I or my parents ever expected. At any rate, I'd better get even really soon, because once that loan is approved (please God, this month!), that's all she wrote as far as not being held accountable.