My daughter, myself

For a decade, give or take ten minutes, I tried to mold my twin boys into my image. They have resisted all efforts and insist on being their own unique selves. I thought I had simply failed to try hard enough, that I did not repeat myself enough, or reinforce positive behaviors enough.

And along came my daughter.

By now, I realize that children come half-baked (ha ha, I just came up with that), already formed. They aren’t really like  lumps of clay, eager to be molded as much as they are Chia Pets upon which grass seed may or may not grow. (The metaphors! I need to go to sleep!)

But my daughter. I want to tell you that I recognize myself in her. She has spent an inordinate amount of time penciling numbers (up to 102) and letters on notebook paper, all within the lines. I suggested, “You could do that later,” and she said, “No, I need to do my work first.” (My sons still cannot write in the lines of notebook paper, much to my chagrin.)

She loves to run, run, run. Playing tag is her favorite game. When I was in first grade, I loved to (literally) chase boys at recess. I was the fastest girl in my elementary school. I loved to run.

Now, maybe you just see the portions of yourself that you want to see in your child. Maybe. My husband thinks she is just like me–and he says that when she’s being particularly sassy. I AM NOT LIKE THAT! (Okay, maybe a little.) She amuses me.

That’s all.