“All children alarm their parents, if only because you are forever expecting to encounter yourself.”   — Gore Vidal

 

This is going to make me sound like an awful mother, ok, more than usual.

I know many of you who are kind enough to read my blog on a regular basis adore my precocious youngest child. But sometimes, sometimes, I wish my child would say only “age-appropriate” things and engage me in “age appropriate” conversations. Sometimes I wish he were not such a little old man.

I am kind of tired of having to respond to a comment out of nowhere such as, “I don’t know how a Christian can ever support death penalty!” Seriously? Where did he get that?

Or, “I finally figured out how Batman became so rich. When his parents died, they left him with the inheritance.” Yes, he’s been quite fascinated by the concept of inheritance lately. I am trying to NOT worry about it.

Or when he flipped the channel and decided that a documentary on Freedom Riders was the most interesting thing on TV and he wanted to watch the whole thing. It’s exhausting because to answer his questions oftentimes requires supplemental materials and contextual information that are beyond his comprehension.

On these days I am worried that I am not qualified to be his mother.

 

I also don’t need a critic that follows me around like Jiminy Cricket, questioning everything that I do or say.

 

The other day he followed me around the house. “You know. This house is falling apart. We have ants everywhere,” he sighed.

First of all, the house is not falling apart. It was built in 2000 and we are the original owners. The ants? The ants are in our house because he leaves a trail of crumbs no matter how many times I have asked him to please be careful since he freaks out about the ants.

He sighed again. “I think it is going to be very hard when it comes time to sell this house.”

“It is not going to be hard to sell this house. Please don’t say things like this.” I was getting rather annoyed because unfortunately, I have absolutely no patience for Debbie Downers, Pessimists and Worrywarts.

“Ok. I just want to let you know that when you die, and I inherit this house, I am going to sell it.”

“Well, I will make sure you don’t inherit this house then.”

“I am just letting you know, that when you die, IF I get the house, I am going to sell it.”

That’s when I started having this huge headache between my eyes. And it’s still there.

 

I don’t need someone to constantly remind me how old I am.

“Mom, you are 40 years old. Do you think you should behave that way?”

“You are a middle-aged woman, please don’t jump up and down.”

And he says these things not because he’s embarrassed, but because he has labeled me as such and therefore I should behave in such and such way to conform to that label.

It’s like I am living with the Puritans.

“Are you my dad? You are worse than my dad.”

Like I said in the beginning, I am an awful mother.

 

It was funny the first time he sprinkled Holy Water on me. It was a lot less funny when I overheard him saying “Yeah, and if your mom does not believe in god, it is very hard when you want to be a good Christian.” To nobody in particular. Again, out of nowhere.

Head. Desk.

 

It’s like living with your own critic, your very own Simon Cowell who has no filters when it comes to the dissemination of truth.

Yup. My son. The truth seeker.

I know I am the adult here but oh boy does the truth hurt especially when it is pointed out to your face by someone who’s supposed to be looking up to you.

 

“Children are unpredictable. You never know what inconsistency they are going to catch you in next.”  — Henry Ward Beecher