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For the first year of a child’s wombless life, when you’re not arguing with your other half about whose turn it is to feed and soothe the baby at three a.m., you’re marveling at how cute your little precious ball of chub is, pointing out the similarities: “Ooh, he’s got your nose.” “Heyyy. My nose isn’t that big.” “But he’s definitely got your eyes, no mistaking that. Look at those beautiful baby blues, like miniature versions of the most amazing . . . do you smell that?”
“Not it.”
You admire all the exterior features, bask in the adorableness of your creation, and spout phrases like “Doesn’t he just take your breath away?” You don’t care that your baby has the personality of an erratic smoke detector. “Isn’t he just the cutest thing?” Even when peeing on you, the baby enchants you.
Poop is still gross.
You cruise through the next few years, so to speak. You’re too tired to count how many hours are between twelve and four but are convinced you’re sleeping through the night. A dash of routine helps the days seem less chaotic. Your child’s features become more defined. “Oh, would you look at that, he does have my nose.” “And your persistence. Did I tell you about yesterday?” “Six times.” “My ears are still ringing.” “You’ll get over it.” Days blend into weeks. Months mean nothing. Friends are forgotten. Weekends are for bickering about whose day it is to sleep in. Time is marked by the child’s milestones: first steps, first word, first day at kindergarten, etc.
But when your child nears the end of grade school, the tyrant rises. Various personality traits pass through the child as often as gas. You wonder if the kid is practicing for multiple auditions. Eventually, a few traits stick, and you start noticing other similarities. “He didn’t get that from me.” “Well, nobody in my family behaves like that.” “Have you met your father?”
“What have we done?”
I mention the trajectory of similarities between parents and their children because my daughter is eleven and is now showing signs of having my less desirable genetic components. Not only is she struggling in school in every way I had, but her mind is starting to turn against her, as mine did near the same age.
I worry.
I worry more than I hope and hope not to worry, but I worry hope is a con man selling me a future reliant on crossed fingers and stargazing.
I can see it on her face and feel it in the air between us when she doesn’t respond to a simple question and dips her head or averts her eyes, unable, for whatever reason, to look at me. It’s in the listless way she carries herself after being alone long enough to explore negative thoughts, those that lurk, persistent and persuasive, waiting for her to comply.
I have cursed her.
Being a kid sucks. It’s more complicated than many adults probably remember. I’ll never forget. I knew where to hide during recess, was afraid to move from my desk, and would hold my pee all day because kids smoked in the bathrooms. I spent many sleepless nights thinking obsessively about what the next day might bring. I worried about where I’d sit in the cafeteria, planned the best exit strategies from each classroom, and imagined hypothetical situations involving bullies and what I might say or do if those occurrences happened.
I remember trying to find a balance between invisibility and recognition. To be seen was embarrassing, guaranteed to make me apprehensive. Still, I wished to be noticed, to believe I existed, to have somebody say, “You can sit here.”