Someday She'll Hate Me

When I was a teenager I was rancid.  I was God-awful to my mother.  I would sneak out of the house in the middle of the night, I would sneak my boyfriend into my room, I drank with my friends, I hiked up my Catholic school uniform skirt up the wazoo.  I was bad news.  Or more accurately, I was a typical teenager.  Those things I'm bracing for, but besides my affinity for boys who were bad, I was nasty.  Just plain out mean to my mother.  Nothing she ever did was good enough.  I never had enough.  I was angry and said a lot of very hurtful things.

Obviously as I've grown, I've  come away from those angst ridden teen age years and my mother and I have emerged on the other side so very close.  But I look at my sweet little girl, who last night fell asleep saying over and over again, "I love my mommy.  Mommy loves Isabella," and I know that one day she'll probably hate me.

She'll roll her eyes at me.  She'll put on makeup when she's not supposed to.  She'll kiss a boy.  She'll try a drink.  She'll yell at me that her life isn't fair.  She'll slam doors and give me the silent treatment.  That's all par for the course I'm sure.  So I need to bottle up her niceness now.

Now, when she prefers me to give her a bath.  When she doesn't care if we walk to the gym and I'm in neon green shorts because I'm awesome and not in the least bit embarrassing.  When she asks to snuggle and read books before bed.  When she still needs her stuffed giraffe to fall asleep.  When all it takes to stop her from crying is the promise of a treat or going outside.  When I can still keep her safe.  When I'm the number one person in her life.