My Kid Hates Me

You should understand before you start to read this that I know I am a self-pitying freak. I know that I need serious help. I also know that my kid does not now, nor has ever hated me. I also know that I am being ridiculous and over-reacting. Okay? Okay. Good, now that we have all of that established, read on, dear readers, read on.

My kid hates me. It's because I'm terrible and heinous and I can't do anything right. I know that. I mean, just to give you an idea of how freakin' hard it must be to live with me, I offer you the following examples:

1. I like to do things. Like fly kites and go to the zoo and dance around the living room. Apparently dancing around the living room is what Satanists do with their children. Or Nazis or something else really terrible. No one wants to dance around the living room and I am therefore evil for trying to talk her into doing it.

2. I live in a big boring house, and I make her go there too. Apparently there is no place on the planet more boring than home, unless of course, it's 7 a.m. and then home is tons of fun, home is Disney World on crack, home is Miley Cyrus and that wizard chick and Phineas all rolled into one!

3. I make her eat terrible, terrible things. Like broccoli. and peas. And waffles. And macaroni and cheese. And I won't let her eat her weight in chocolate until she has had at least three bites of something healthy.

4. I want to watch cartoons with her and hang out in my room and eat popcorn. All of that is booorrrring. Playing on the computer and jumping on my bed, now that's fun. Why can't I see that?!?

But, by far, the worst thing that I do, ever is:
5. I pick her up from YMCA. She wants to stay there forever and never go home and I come, every single day, and ruin that dream. How will she ever learn to play dodgeball and marry Mr. Rob if I keep picking her up? And if I can't pick her up, then why can't I at least take her to Pizza Hut. Every day, please.


Brynn and I have been at war for the past week. Nothing I do is right and everything I do is either evil or boring. (I am about to strike boring from the house vocabulary. It will be banished along with stupid and I-know-everything.) Now, don't get me wrong. I expected this, from my teenage daughter! Isn't she like ten years early for hating me?

All week long, I have been carrying her screaming, kicking, miserable body out of Montessori in one arm, carrying Maren's pumpkin seat in the other arm and balancing the lunch plate, jacket and myriad artwork on my head. Parents look at me like perhaps I am Satan. Kids snicker and point. Some parents have the decency to smack snickering kids. The staff pretends not to notice. I have been an absolute parriah at YMCA for a week.

I could deal with that if we could get in the car and get over it. But no. We can't. I have the radio too loud, or too soft. I have the car too hot or too cold. I am not driving her to Pizza Hut. I took the Hello Kitty hairclip out of my hair after I dropped her off at Montessori. I am not a giant talking cat. Then we get home. And it starts over there.

Every once in a while I try to do something so spectacular that she will love me forever, remembering that one day when mom... But it never works.

I can't wait until she grows up and has kids just like her and I can laugh and laugh and laugh. I will spoil and snicker and giggle. I will remind her of doing this to me.

I keep having these moments, these being-a-parent-is moments and here is mine from today:

Being a parent is always trying to make someone happy who will only be happy when they are too old to enjoy it.