My mother was fond of saying, "When you were a teenager, though I always loved you, I didn't like you at all."
I believe her. She did not like me very much at all. Between the ages of 12 and 17 I was at war with my mother. We screamed and yelled and doors were slammed - mainly by me but she slammed her fair share - out of frustration because neither of us were getting our own way. She wanted me under her thumb because she loved me and wanted to keep me safe and the only way she knew how to do that was to control pretty much my every move. I wanted independence so badly I could taste it and pushed her buttons every chance I could. We were the same person living in two different bodies and that, my friends, was a recipe for disaster.
I didn't like her and she sure as hell didn't like me.
Raising two girls is my mother's parting shot from the grave. A little joke to chuckle over in the afterlife. She always told me during those years at odds with each other that she hoped I would have two girls just like me so I would know one day what she was going through.
I thought I'd have at least twelve years before I had to worry about that. Eleven at the earliest.
I got three.
Chicky is three going on sixteen. She is defiant, opinionated and very independent. Except when she doesn't want to do something and then she demands I do it.
"No Mommy, I don't pick up my toys. You do it." With arms folded and a look of triumph on her face. Yeah, who's in charge here? I ask myself that question fifty times a day.
Next week she'll probably climb out of her window in the dead of night to run away and get a tattoo of Elmo on the small of her back.
If this is how she is now I should probably get to work on my padded room before the teen years start.
We are at war. Which means, she is shaping up to be exactly like me. And right now my mother is laughing so hard she's probably wet herself. If you can do that in heaven.
I love my daughters. No one who has read this blog for any length of time can ever accuse me of the opposite. I love them fiercely. I would wrestle a bear to save them. I would throw myself in front of a speeding bus. I would beat up the playground bully if I had to, if that meant keeping Chicky safe and happy.
But sometimes I just don't like her.
And some days it even goes beyond that.
I wouldn't say that I hate Chicky because that's too ugly a word. But I believe there is an emotion that is stronger than dislike but not as base as hate that only parents experience. It's a mixture of dislike, frustration, resentment, exhaustion, with a smidge of wounded pride and a sprinkle of heartache. It makes our blood boil and has us seeing red whenever it bubbles to the surface.
Extreme dislike? I'm no wordsmith. Maybe someone else has a better term for it.
I think it's normal to have these feelings from time to time. We raise our children to be decent human beings. We teach them to say "Please" and "Thank you" and have good table manners. We raise them to be moral and just. To be kind to animals and to help those in need. Respect authority but think for yourself. Always kiss me goodnight, say your prayers (if that's your thing), and wash behind your ears.
But then, then, in those dark hours between 4pm and bedtime when they're literally bouncing off of the walls and you're tired of yelling, "I said get out of your sister's face and if you make her cry you will never watch television again do you hear me young lady??" for the billionth time (and by "you" I mean... Oh, never mind.) you look into their faces, still round with a touch of baby fat, and you want nothing more but for them to Go. The. Hell. Away.
Because this is how you treat me? After everything I've done for you?? Do you have any idea what my once perky breasts look like because of you, you little ingrate???
You don't really want them to go away. At least, not forever. No. You love your child. But for that moment you really, REALLY, don't want them around because they're not being very likable.
I hope one day when Chicky reads these entries she understands why we screamed so much at each other. I hope she gets some insight into her mother's crazed rantings by reading these words. I hope she knows that I always loved her but sometimes I didn't like her. At all. But yes, I always, and will forever continue to, love her.
And I hope she has two girls just like her so that she knows just what I went through.
