Wednesday, July 21, 2010

The One In Which I Hope Gypsies Steal My Oldest Daughter In The Middle Of The Night

Oh, stop judging me. It's just a title.

Albeit one full of insight and obvious frustration.

Oh, Jelly Bean. How I adore your perky little 15-year old attitude. Full of self-entitlement and anger. I, too, was once fifteen. I, too, was full of anger. More anger than you are full of because I was a middle child and you happen to be the respected first born. I had to wear hand-me-downs. Lots of them. My entire life. And my older sister was pretty. And smart. And talented. And had lots of friends. And got her very own dog named Princess for her birthday. And even though Princess only lasted three days because the thing was an idiot, the point was she got her very own dog and we lived on a farm. And don't even get me started on the whole bath time routine... the one where the First Born got to bathe in fresh, clear, hot water and I got the leftovers. Imagine bathing in someone else's exfoliated skin. You have no idea if they farted in that water and yet here I was, expected to wash my face with it. Then the tub was emptied for the two younger boys. Fresh, clear, hot water for them to splash around and fart in. As if bath time wasn't enough to send me over the edge, my older sister got a stereo as a bribe when my dad tried to get rid of the insane killer-horse named Rocket even though Rocket was "everybody's horse" and tried desperately to kill me (not her). Do you get what I'm saying? She was the only one out of four of us who made out with stereo equipment so I get anger. I lived it. Breathed it. And have allowed it to fester into the snarky wit my mother is so proud of today.

But, you. You. You are beautiful. You can do your hair in thousands of different styles that come straight off the red carpet. And you do this by yourself. In the dark. With your eyes closed. I have two styles: Down and Frizzy or Up and Frizzy. You are the first born. There are pictures as proof of you in clothes that came right off the rack - without spit up stains on them. Remember my hand me downs? They included a t-shirt with one of those pliable vinyl transfers on it of a kitten. Only it had been washed and worn so many times by my older sister it looked like the white snowstorm static of a 1970's television set. (That's not a cool shirt, in case you were wondering.) You possess a talent for dancing that is unprecedented in my world. When I dance I sort of look like I'm suffering through full body electro-shock treatments.

I guess what I'm saying is, I can't wait until you're old enough to realize how beautiful and talented and fun and smart you truly are. How you are far more beautiful than this attitude you've been handing out. It might be a long, lonely, miserable wait for me, but you're worth it. And don't mind Mommy as she opens her second bottle of wine today...

1 comment:

Sorta Southern Single Mom said...

I like your title and I totally get it...oh my daughter is 6 going on 16 and I can just imagine what it will be like when she's a teenager... I remember what I was like and it makes me cringe!

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