One of my greatest fears about raising a daughter is the fear that the Ancient Mothers’ Curse will come true, the one that has existed since the dawn of humanity, from way back in the cradle of civilization, passed on from generation to generation to generation, from grandmother to mother to daughter, and that I will end up with a kid who is exactly like me.
There is no place in an ordered Universe for TWO of me. There is barely enough room on the space-time-sanity continuum for just ME.
Oh, I’m not worried about the things you might think I worry about. I don’t stay up nights wondering if I’m ever going to be on time for anything ever again in my life. I don’t (often) sweat the fact that I still can’t do a damn thing with her hair, or that if I let her dress herself she might leave the house looking like a colorblind clown with an affinity for princess shoes and Tinkerbell hairbows.
No, my biggest pause is for the possibility that I have a hyperdramatic emo kid on my hands, and to quote the “Lethal Weapon” movies, “I’m too old for this sh — stuff.”
Here is a big reason why this concerns me: I recently rediscovered some of my old journals from high school. They are pretty much exactly as awful as you expect them to be. In fact, they might even be worse, if such a thing is possible. There are snippets of love letters that were never sent. There is wretched, miserable, godawful poetry. POETRY. Written by a 17-year-old me, mostly about 16- to 18-year-old boys, when I was a junior and senior in high school. Lots of doodle hearts and smiley faces and capitalized exclamations and obvious tear stains and sweet cracker sandwiches, that stupid POETRY. Pass the brain bleach, would you?
It’s really embarrassing. The only thing in there that I feel comfortable sharing is a quote by someone else: “Don’t ever let anyone monkey with your swing.” Ted Williams knew what he was talking about. I, regrettably, did not.
And so here we are, fast-forwarded twenty years in the future, to this strange brave new world where I have a beautiful four-year-old who is smart and funny and who knows all the words to at least a dozen of my very favorite show tunes — and is also already well on her way to boy-crazy. She has a little boyfriend at school, an adorable little blonde moppet who reminds me a frightening amount of the first boy who really broke my heart, the one who was the focus of so many pages in my old journals.
She has told her father and me that this boy is “already in her soul.” Already in her soul. At four years old. She often describes her feelings about him in terms of song lyrics. A lot of the same song lyrics that I quoted in those journals, all those years ago. When they have spats, even now, tiny little lovers’ quarrels over Legos or Play-Doh or whatever the heck it is that four-year-olds in Preschool 2 argue about, my heart breaks for her already, even though I know there are dozens, maybe even hundreds, of these things yet to come, just like my mother suffered through dozens of these with me, and as I imagine her mother did with her, and so on.
But I am telling you now: I am willing to put up with quite a lot for this kid, but when she starts writing poetry, I’m sending her to live with my mother. She wished this on me, and she can suffer the consequences. I’m too old for this sh — stuff.
[author] [author_image timthumb=’on’]http://primeparentsclub.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/rachelage2-a.jpg
[author_info]About the Author
Rachel Gonzales (aka “rockle”) is a PrimeParentsClub.com regular Lifestyle contributor. She is the actual child in her profile picture, which was taken in 1976, so it probably goes without saying that mistakes were made. You can read more of her here on Prime Parents Club, or on her blog, rockle-riffic. [/author_info][/author]