My daughter, who says her nickname is "Cheez," has a birthday coming up. She will be ten, but she is very complex when compared to other children her age. She is also highly intelligent which makes my job only that much harder. I have to stay on my toes.
In my daughter's many hobbies and abilities lies a small passion for creative writing. She is always starting books that never get completed even though she will have several chapters that seem to pose high hopes for an awesome book.
The problem with every writer is that we start off with fiction and quickly realize that the summary of our own personal lives would be way more interesting. More of a "you couldn't make this shit up" kind of theory. This is where my dilemma arises. The memoir that my daughter writes will be one big joke about how I manage to fuck up her life.
I can see it now. I can see the chapters dedicated to her unconventional mom.
~My Mother is Always High (On Caffeine)
~Mom is Yelling at Inanimate Objects Again
~Taco Bell Again? Why Can't You Cook, Bitch?
~You're Not Allowed to Wear That in Public
~We Call You "Crazy Spice" Behind Your Back
~When She Sings and Dances, People Think She's Having a Seizure
~I Don't Care if They Are in Style, She Will Never be Able to Pull Off a Tu-Tu
~If She Spent as Much Time Cleaning as she Does Bitching About How Dirty Things Are...
~Mom Left Her Phone in the Freezer
Of course this list isn't all inclusive. I'm sure she and others could think of many more, but you get the gist. However, even through all the craziness, Cheez is still able to maintain excellent grades, have witty conversations, and make me so proud that I cry. I was never really the type of person that had patience with children. I never imagined that I would have a child of my own. However, I love her and owe her everything that I can give her. Mainly she deserves it just for surviving me.