You guys, I had a dismal growing up with my mother. No one gets the sole blame for this. I was a terrible kid with giant emotional highs and lows and she was parts volatile and parts impatient. Frustratingly, it has to be said that I bore the brunt of this. Maybe because I was difficult. Maybe because I was the first born. Maybe because three kids were, for her, too hard to begin with. If I could insert a shrug here, I would. Although there’s no undoing it, there’s no point in dwelling on that.
It’s no surprise that I’m afraid of the same thing happening with my own kid.
D’s relationships with her own family members are so different from mine that we’re both a little incredulous. I can’t believe she never stormed out, tried to run away and screamed that she hated her mother. She can’t believe that actually happens. You guys, I was six. At most.
Since we know that RR didn’t genetically inherit my temperment, I have high hopes that she will be mellow like her mother. Our donor also appeared to be laid back (possibly to the point of inertia) so there’s a chance that she won’t be like me. I’m depending on nature for this one. But, I’m prepared for the inevitable moment when she asserts her independence loudly. And for the moment when she does it angrily. Oh sure, I’m going to cry. But then I’m going to do this:
Because the weirdness after that moment when you storm into your room for the first time, slam the door and scream I HATE YOU at the person who has done everything for you is too much. It’s a hurdle to get past that gracefully. I don’t know how to do it right, but I do know how to do it wrong. Besides, isn’t it always a good time for cake?