SHUT UP AND LET ME MOM
At this moment in time, I am my daughter’s favorite person in the whole world. She’s 18 months old and, excluding the three days we went away on a family vacay (where I was a raging lunatic because I had my period AND forgot to bring my meds), it’s always been this way.
My husband is a very hands-on father – and she loves him to pieces. When he comes home from work, she’s the most excited little human I’ve ever seen. But after five minutes with him, she’s opening the toilet door to see what I’m up to. Usually I’m just sitting there Facebooking, so it’s no bog deal from my end (see what I did there?), but my husband can get a little frustrated at the fact that’s he’s always second choice. No doubt about it: she’s a mama’s girl.
TO MY DAUGHTER, FROM YOUR ANXIOUS MOTHER
Your face is contorted – fire engine red with rage. In fact, it’s so red it’s starting to turn purple. Your cries escalate with every second that passes and as I watch you, your skin turns blotchy. My stomach is tied up in knots and my face burns with embarrassment.
“No. You need to learn how to share with others,” I say as I turn away from you.
I force myself to join in on the conversation with our visitors. Both mothers, but I know that the sheer force of your tantrums has shocked them – they would have shocked even the most seasoned professional. Let’s face it, though; despite what anyone would have the world believe, when it comes to parenting, no one is a professional. Not even Tizzie Hall.
Your cries eventually stop, but you haven’t forgotten about the books I took away and hid from you. You ask for them and I give in. I always give in. So what have I taught you?