Thank God my parents had the foresight to live in a refugee camp because I rock at motherhood.

Written by OHmommy

Sunday, 24 May 2009 18:00

So, my five year old daughter, she's going through a little stage ~~dear Gawd, I hope it's a stage~~ that's making me crazy and questioning if she's really mine after all. Which is quite possible seeing that she was the first newborn checked into the hospital nursery every night and last to be picked up in the morning. And she's blond. Stranger things have happened.

Let's cut to the chase. She's in the bratty stage where all she does is cross her arms dramatically, pout, whine and God bless her soul she bitches. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph does she bitch.

"I can't find anything to wear!" She fell to the floor so gracefully it was worth an Oscar, the day after I locked up half her clothes because it took her twenty-nine minutes to get ready in the morning. Yes, she is only five ~~really fifteen~~. "I need my clothes returned back to me."

"You have plenty of choices."

"But. But.... BUT!!!" Her arms took their trademark place, crisscrossed across her chest, her lower lip quivering in defeat. ".... but."

I looked at her and wondered if I would actually survive mothering a child who tests my faith religiously even before my morning parfait to see her actually turn fifteen. And then what? I did what any desperate mother of a middle child turned dictator would have done. I put on my poker face and threw down my straight flush of guilt cards.

I started. "When I was your age..." Oh. Yes. I did. I became my mother.

Taking my mother's trademark stance of one foot forward and one hand on her hip. I continued. "When I was EXACTLY your age Babcia, Dziadek, Kash, and I had one teeny-tiny suitcase for all of us when we