I just sent Princess off to gan in tears. Her, not me. Well, me too. Because when she is not in a good mood, I know that I had something to do with it, that I was less than ideal, and that stings.
It wasn't really my fault this morning. Coco-pop, who wakes up before the sun, woke her up this morning, and she woke up grumpy, raring for a fight. I sang to her, let her play the game which is the bane of my existance--Shoe Store, in which every show in the house is layed out on the couch, and then paired up and sold and placed into bags and delivered (for free!) all over the apartment.
I wrote her a mitzvah note, and didn't make a big deal over her half-finished yogurt. I let her play (i.e. torture) the baby and all was well--until the teeny tiny incident that happened as we were leaving. It ended in her calling me "an icky Ima" and me, tight-lipped, sending her off without a kiss.
I'm still wondering what went wrong. I guess I just never became the ideal me, the perfect me, the one I thought I would effortlessly turn into when I got older.
The ideal me is slightly taller, much narrower, a little thinner. She is sweeter, kinder, more patient, and a better, and published, writer. Her singing voice is stronger, and her acting more polished. Her kids obey every word she utters and with a smile, too, since she is always fair and phrases things perfectly. Her house is neat, her dinners delicious and perfectly balanced nutritionaly. She keeps in touch with all of her friends and family, and sews, too.
She sounds like Mother Teresa, but looks like Barbie.
Upon further reflection, I'm not sure if I want to become her...
or kill her.