King of the Hill
January 16, 2006, 7:34 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

I love my daughter to pieces. She is sassy, whitty, funny and an amazing bit of a person. But I swear-to-fucking-God, sometimes she can make my blood boil in a second flat. It can be a toss of her hair, a roll of her eyes or yet another question as to why I am in charge and she is not. Regardless, there are times when I would like nothing more than to lock her out in the snow while I sit in a hot bath and enjoy my solitude with a glass of wine. One such moment occured a couple of days ago in the car. I suck at multi tasking and she knows this, so while I was attempting a left hand turn on to an icey road, she was yakkking and demanding about something we had agreed to let go for another day. I could see her out of the corner of my eye gesticulating, stomping her foot, moving to and fro as she bitched, whined and moaned about the injustices of existing on earth as my daughter. Devon chose just that moment to start shrieking about some woe in his world. I couldn’t make a left. And I lost it. Lost it big. I can’t remember the beginning of my scream, but my other self who watches from afar, was turning red with shame at my ranting. I do remember a few seconds into it I put forth something like this, “Goddammit Cassidy, you’re just nine. And we have a minimum of nine more years together. And if things don’t change one of us will have to go. One of us. Do you hear me? Boarding school isn’t just for highschoolers, you know?”

First she looked at me with complete horror at the thought that just one of us could stay. Then she said, ” Duh, Mom. I’m eight. Not nine.”

But I really suspect that in those few moments she was thinking, “I wonder where she’ll go when I oust her? Do they have a Bad Mom camp?”


2 Comments so far
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Maybe we should just send Cass and Tommy to live with Granny Pat?

Comment by jen-o-rama

Thank you for visiting Rutabaga Stew and the comment. No, I don’t mind if you write something at The Cancer Blog about Rutabaga Stew. It’s pretty much up and rolling now.

But, oh my, how I do not miss ‘those years’ with my daughter. From 9 to 18, if I remember right. In exasperation, I stumbled on what was to become the saving grace for my sanity. I started agreeing with her about the kind of mother she accused me of being. I told her I did indeed wake every morning with the single purpose of sucking every ounce of joy out of her life (because she actually accused me of doing this in one of her dramatic meltdowns over something I said she could not do at 9 — and 10 — and 11 — until she left for college at 18)and on top of my diabolical plan to extract all the fun I could from her daily life, I looked for every opportunity to embarrass her. It worked for me. In between, when she was sweet, and human and the loving daughter I remembered before she received her Intergalactic Handbook for Disagreeable Humanoids, I loved her, and laughed with her and did all the girly-girl things mothers do with their daughters. Knowing all the while this reality turned on a dime. It’s in the handbook, how to make that happen, and my daughter was a master.

At 19, while away at college, I got the best letter from her, apologizing for her behavior and thanking me for being a mother who cared enough. She is 25 now, and we are the best of friends. I am her biggest fan, and she is mine.

Comment by Dalene

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