“Little Graystone is 37 weeks today!”
“We you love our precious Bathsheba so much, we count the days!”
Why say, "She's one!" when you can be precise, right? Can you believe she's almost 400? Other parents annoy me, I'm surely just as irritating; I'm just in a subgroup of those who admit it.
And so, after having my head removed from my ass, I see that Parenting will be the most effective method of having my own flaws discovered, emphasized, and with any luck, examined and addressed.
I wonder how many times I will have to learn that it's not just about me anymore.
Exhibit A: Lyric is clearly the most perfect thing on the planet. I just bought a half dozen books on discipline because she grabs the electric socket, watches me, waits for the "noooooooooooooooo," and then gleefully inserts the metal fork with a sparkly grin.
I bought the books because I'm still so smitten, her joy not only kills me, but my reticence to say anything might just kill her.
I bought the books because I'm still so smitten, her joy not only kills me, but my reticence to say anything might just kill her.
That first year of momhood was snappy breezy. I'd read a few articles and interviewed a few key players, including a mother of three kids under age 10. None are in juvey, rehab, or a boy band, so clearly my friend is an expert.
Other than those few inputs, we've all good on our own. Lyric is possessed with cuteness, "wicked smahts," and impressive physical prowess. She's funny as hell, cuddles like a champ, and has appointed one of our cats as her soulmate. She has little stranger- or separation- anxiety, prefers books to TV, and says "banana." She's inherited my addiction to chocolate, thinks I'm a Divine Goddess, and is the one human assured of a deep, gut-level smile from me just for showing up.
Other than those few inputs, we've all good on our own. Lyric is possessed with cuteness, "wicked smahts," and impressive physical prowess. She's funny as hell, cuddles like a champ, and has appointed one of our cats as her soulmate. She has little stranger- or separation- anxiety, prefers books to TV, and says "banana." She's inherited my addiction to chocolate, thinks I'm a Divine Goddess, and is the one human assured of a deep, gut-level smile from me just for showing up.
She's perfect just the way she is.
Except when she's not. Once a day, or every other day--or so--she is clingy and whiney. And I, it seems, have no tolerance for her being not perfect. I become agitated, irritable, and ... whiney. Then I reveal my annoyance to her. Sometimes I yell. At a 1-year-old. So now we know that she picked up her whining from mom, and that perhaps her intellect was sourced elsewhere.
I just had the best year ever, and now I have to start actual "parenting." Somehow eight books on discipline are supposed to rectify 35 years of emotional immaturity.
The first book quickly informed me that the problem is not Baby; it's Mommy. That was news to me, merely because a) the book apparently has an audience of > 1. And b) I have always been quick to point the finger at myself, but I thought perhaps this time it was just a matter of Showing the Child How to Be Even More Perfect.
The first book quickly informed me that the problem is not Baby; it's Mommy. That was news to me, merely because a) the book apparently has an audience of > 1. And b) I have always been quick to point the finger at myself, but I thought perhaps this time it was just a matter of Showing the Child How to Be Even More Perfect.
And so, after having my head removed from my ass, I see that Parenting will be the most effective method of having my own flaws discovered, emphasized, and with any luck, examined and addressed.
I wonder how many times I will have to learn that it's not just about me anymore.
