there’s a new mom in town

You know the type.

Young, enthusiastic, with that ridiculously high energy level. She’s always watching and listening, but pretending that she’s not. No kids of her own yet, but that doesn’t stop her from being an expert on my family. Or me. The kids just love her. She’s a natural leader. She instructs smaller people with the ease and confidence of someone with nothing to lose. And those beneath me prefer to follow her. And I get that. But I don’t have to like it.

She’s not new per se, she’s lived on our street for seven years now, but it’s only recently gotten awkward. Sometimes it’s so bad that she drives me to TMJ and I can’t do anything about it because I’m being so petty. I mean, it’s not her fault that she dances the way I did before I became self-conscious. Or that her skin is as soft and line-free as mine was before I traded sunblock in for baby oil, and then had kids. Or that her hair is as shiny and straight as mine was before puberty…and my first perm. That’s not my fault either. The dancing part, anyway.

Lately it’s become awkward because she’s started overstepping, and bossing TWO around. And not the kind of bossing necessary to obtain a shred of personal space. I mean, hard-core bossing her around. Kind of the way I get if the girls start fighting before my morning coffee(s). She actually cut TWO off mid-sentence to correct a grammatical error. Like she should be so proud that she’s smarter than a 4YO. Or raising her voice an octave the way I do with ONE when she’s let her smart mouth flap a bit more than she should. And the worst part? She’s gone as far as to comment on my attire. Announcing that she wished I’d wear dresses. There’s no chance she’s ever wished for that. And besides, I don’t have enough leg for dresses. Some short people are stumpy. We can’t help it.

But the worst part is listening to her scream. I should rephrase. The worst part is that I often “take out the trash” while she’s screaming in her house. Screaming. Sometimes she’s the only one in there. But her fits of rage are fascinating.They usually highlight things like family members not listening to her, or not waiting for her. The “not waiting” is a frequent complaint. Waiting for what? Their house is so small. But somehow, it’s like listening to a high-pitched, extremely loud version myself. I’ve never said the things she does, but I’ve thought them. And then of course she caught me outside and accused me of hiding from her.

Which I totally was.

The trash can is as far away from her as I can get during one of her fits without the fear of Social Services coming in and accusing me of abandoning my seven-year-old adult. The grown child I’ve accidentally trained to be me, who probably could parent her sister with the same success/failure rate I’m experiencing with her at this point.

Meeting a bit of myself in her makes me want to be a better mom. To laugh more. To play. To be worthy of her emulation. To drink. And not always a heavy caffeinated beverage to weaken my headache, or a dirty shot when no one is looking. But sometimes a warm hot chocolate, rich with whipped cream and sprinkles. Something I could live the rest of my life without, but don’t, because she can’t.

And though she likes to pretend she’s my equal, today she’s still a little kid. My little kid. And I’m going to enjoy her little for as long as I have left. And maybe even buy us matching dresses.

Or perms.

© 2012 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

 

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