Thursday, April 15, 2010
Today, you are eight. You are halfway to having your driver's license. [Dude, it's California. Of course you'll be getting your license on your birthday. Unless, of course, it's on a Friday and they're still furloughing at the DMV every other Friday because of the budget crisis. Or unless the world really does end in 2012, in which case, at least you got to ride the Autopia cars at Disneyland a couple of times. Or you will when we make it there again and you're at the height that enables you to sit behind the wheel.]
You are my nemesis, you who look so much like me. The consternation you cause me is beyond compare. Some of my interactions with you fill me with such self-loathing that I wonder how I will possibly survive your childhood. Worse, by far, is I wonder how you will survive having me as a mother.
I do love you. You know that.
And you do love me. I know that.
I'm hopeful that those two facts will be the royal flush that will override everything else, now and forever.
Happy birthday, my taxing baby. Here's to many more years of the battle! And here's to both of us learning how to fight fair.
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