Channeling Mommy Dearest

There was this one time (at band camp?) that I thought I wanted to be a teacher.  I can explain very complex concepts and create all sorts of tips and tricks to help people learn new things.  Thankfully, I did not take myself seriously.  In reality, I can teach adults.  I have patience with adults.  I can connect with adults.  ADULTS.

Now that I have a 5-year old daughter to raise and teach, I see I have truly missed my calling.... as a deranged serial killer. 

In the beginning, I was ready for the challenges that awaited me.  I just had to stick to my guns, be the alpha dog, firm but loving, "be the crane" (fellow SpongeBob aficionados will know what I'm talking about with that last reference). You can stop with that 'knowing' laugh and put your eyebrows down.  I know (now) how wrong I was. 

She became her own little person.  Which turned out to be strikingly similar to the little person that I was... am.  Stubborn, lazy, funny, procrastinator, dilly-dallier extraordinaire, chatty, crowd-worker, people-pleaser. 

Potty training was good times.  Like that one time when I had her running amok sans diaper thinking she'd realize there was nothing to catch her emissions and she'd use the potty.  Instead she shit in the playroom and just moved herself and her Pretty Little Ponies over a bit, away from what looked like a giant dog pile.  "Really?" I asked her.  "You really don't think there's anything wrong with that????"  Rubbing her nose in it was obviously out of the question.  So after several failed attempts, I abandoned ship and decided I'd let her college friends handle the potty training.  Then about a month later, as I reached for a diaper, she said, "No more diapers, Mama.  Panties."    And that was it.  She never looked back.  She essentially potty trained herself.  I should have known that was the beginning of a pattern and the end of my sanity. 

Same scenario with colors:  "What color is this?"
"PINK!"
"Well, that's the most goth shade of pink I've ever seen.  It's black, baby.  BLACK!"
I gave up and she taught herself her colors.  Including turquoise and chartreuse.  Don't ask me.  I have no idea. 

Now we're in Kindergarten and reading/writing has really brought out the Mommy Dearest in me.  I get so frustrated and have these out of body moments where I can see myself with my hair pulled back, a thick layer of cold cream on my face - but not around my delicate eyes and mouth - hovering over her, "What sound does the letter M make?  What do you mean 'hhhhh'????  The letter EMMMMM!  Do you hear 'hhhh' in the letter EMMMMMM????  REALLY????"  Fortunately, I catch myself before I go off the deep end like that.  While I may abruptly excuse myself, quietly mumbling about needing a cigarette, a bottle of wine, and a Xanax; I do not wield wire hangers... or even use cold cream, for that matter.  And when she does throw me a bone and count to 100 in increments of 5, it's ice cream for EVERYONE!!!  FOREVER!!!!  That child's not dumb.  She's a player.  A mama-playah!  And she learns according to HER agenda, not mine.  Where does she get this from?  (Zip it, smarty pants!  I know the answer.  Her father!  Haha... okay, okay.  It's me.)

Once or twice I've gone to her school.  One hour in that place, and I wanted to scoop my eyeballs out with (sterile) melon ballers. God bless our Kindergarten teachers who basically start at ground-zero with a room-full of wild animals.  It must be like herding squirrels.  They take a group of children with varying levels of knowledge, skills, and self-control and *voila!* by the end of the school year, we have a group of nicely institutionalized members of society. 

And now Dot's writing sentences, doing math, counting money... all because some other super-human teacher did NOT miss their calling!  Thank you, Super Teacher!

You know, I believe Mommy Dearest really did love her children.  Just not the "children" part of them.  ;)

-B(Sting)