The
life of being a parent, at least for me, is a dichotomy of, "I cannot wait
for you to grow up!" right after witnessing a particularly wet diaper seep
over the carpet, and, "O my god, what am I going to do when you grow
up?"
I
want to tear my hair out, and I yell. Then I want to cry every time my son
crawls up on my lap and gives a tiny, "I'm sorry."
One
day he won't want to apologise; one day he will simply resent me. One day he
will be a teen.
My
girl friend loves going through my old photos. It makes her laugh as she sees
the evolution of my family, from my birth to the present day. It fills me with
anger. You see, I hate the old me--that stupid kid with bad hair, worse
clothes, desperately trying to be cool and love hip hop, even though he knew
that it sucked; he moped around, trying to find love when he should have just
shut up, quit writing lame poetry, and had some fun.
Wow,
did I hate me.
So
how do I face that which, in me, I could not stand? I guess that is why parents
should be in their thirties when their kids turn over to thirteen. Maybe, then,
I will have the distance from my own adolescence to obtain have a different
perspective. Or maybe it will be
unconditional love for my son that will keep me from going mad whenever I see
my own child touting the stupid, new fad of 2023.
I
guess that I could hope that everything I do today will be super cool in a
decade, but, then, I would be an idiot. And I'm not an idiot...most of the
time. I'm a parent.
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