Day 12, Week 2: The Mother of all Bad Mums.

I have a daughter. Just one. We stopped with one because I knew my limitations; I'm not good with little kids, I am not the most patient of people, I'm selfish and saw how exhausted my friends who had more than one are. They never seemed happy with their children, only tired and angry all the time. I had a fantasy that with just one, we'd be so happy together, we'd be very bestest friends and do everything together. She'd love to read, wouldn't ever want to watch TV because playing with her awesome toys is so much better, she'd be able to solve complicated math and language problems and enjoy it, she'd be so creative and want to spend her days happily alone working on brilliant little projects she'd come up with. My life would be idyllic; my child would be a genius prodigy.

I think karma has decided to kick me in the ass.

She doesn't like to read. She has almost never independently sat down in front of her bookcase and started pulling out books and excitedly flipping through them. Getting her to read them is an exercise that needs earplugs. This is heartbreaking for me, the bibliophile author whose ultimate fantasy includes and endless library of books on a deserted tropical island. It also includes a yummy native man, but that's another blog.
She doesn't like to play with her toys. She wants toys; she wants everything she sees and, thanks mostly to overindulgent grandparents and a mother desperate to find something that she'll independently play with, she has two rooms overflowing with stuff. She wants more stuff, stuff that will just sit on her shelf and not get played with. She won't let her friends play with her stuff either.
She'd watch TV all day if I let her. She's not the kind of kid who can have the TV on in the background and still be playing; if it's on, she's a mesmerized veggie bump on the couch. (To be fair, I'm like that too. It's like the opposite of ADHD.)
She's cautious. Which is fine, except sometimes trying to get her to try something new is impossible. She's a watcher, and has been since she was about four months old. She has almost no exploration drive.

My kid is a boring, neurotic lump.

Don't get me wrong, I love her more than my own life. I remember in the hospital after she was born, having the sudden feeling like I would stand over her and growl at danger. That I would do anything for this silky, serenely wiggly, unfathomably lovely little being. I routinely embarrass myself by crying with pride and longing at every one of her accomplishments and performances. I was a neurotic new mum, scared for her and scared of her. I was so afraid of doing anything wrong, of having anyone think badly of my mothering skills, I think I smothered the joy out of all of it, of all of us. I spent the first two years manically finding activities for us to do, very rarely letting us just stay home and be ourselves, explore who she is.

I want nothing more than for her to be healthy and happy and content with herself.

But I seem to be having trouble accepting that her self is not what I think it should be. So I lose patience and get disappointed in her choices and responses, get impatient with the incessant "buts" and "what ifs" she can pose in any situation (my neurotic mother has instilled and nurtured the worrywort gene quite snugly in my daughter and it irritates the crap out of me with both of them). I yell. A lot. And then I hate myself, because I don't want her to grow up feeling bad about herself, not liking who she is, not knowing who she is, afraid to be brave because it might be wrong or might not be the right decision. I don't want her to someday have to blog about all her self-loathing and bad life choices.