The bus was late yesterday morning. This actually worked out well, because it gave me five more minutes to yell at the Little Princess.
I don't even remember what the fuss was about. It was morning, she was being 11, I was being a Mom. Do you really need more reason than that?
It was one of those days I could identify with the wild animals that eat their young (bet they taste like chicken). Or at least those that push the pups out of the den before they become teens.
No matter what the nature shows tell you, I'm betting it's the mommy animals that run off and hide behind the trees hoping their little girl wild animals won't find them. The daddy animals are out showing the little boy animals how to operate power tools without opposable thumbs, and saying "Oh, now. You girls play nice."
Makes me wonder why the Queen Mother didn't slap a "return to sender" sticker on my forehead and arrange to ship me back via StorkEx. You see, I have reached a certain level of maturity which allows me to realize I might not have been perfect as a child. It took years for me to achieve perfection.
Maybe there's something about little girls reaching pre-adolescence that causes some sort of "Freaky Friday-" type switch. When she turns 11 (or 10, or nine?) the little girl's ability to empathize is zapped into the mom. But before anything can be zapped back, the little girl's brain holds up its hand, rolls it's eyes, says "Whatev," and stomps off.
I look at the Little Princess and all I can remember is the awful, horrible, awkwardness of being 11. The Little Princess looks at me and thinks "Yeah, right. Like you were ever 11."
But I was. And I remember what it's like to try to find a place to fit in. To want to be popular. To hate piano lessons. To have a life. To think the world revolves around me.
Of course, the world does revolve around me. Now. It took years for that to develop, too. Believe me, when you're the Center of the Universe, there's a whole asteroid belt of annoying people orbiting around you. And it's an elliptical orbit than really gets in the way when I'm driving. Or shopping. Or just about any time I'm in public.
I've read that most children go through a stage when they fantasize that the plain, ordinary people they call "mom" and "dad" aren't their real parents. Their real parents are movie stars, rockers, secret agents, or some other famous, exciting and glamorous people. They cling to the belief that some day their real parents will sweep in and rescue them from the embarrassment of "Mom" in her polyester pants. Oh yeah, today's children just think we dress dorky. They don't know the horror of pants with a sewn-in crease.
Yesterday I fantasized that a hospital official would knock on the door and say, "I'm sorry. There was a mix up in the nursery. Some children were switched at birth. These quiet, well-behaved, children who follow directions are actually yours. We'll just return those stubborn, surly kids you've been raising to their rightful parents. Sorry for the mix up."
"And by the way, Colin Firth will be along later in his Porsche to whisk you off to a private jet for a flight to a private villa in Greece, where you'll be meeting with a book publisher about your multi-million dollar contract."
Eh, as long as I'm fantasizing, might as well go all the way.