I remember being eight years old and my mom telling me, speech slurred from what looked to be the majority of the contents of a box of wine (because we were obviously a classy family) that I was the smartest girl in the world, and that I could be whatever I wanted to be. You would think that a child would view this as empowering, if not idealistically optimistic...but even my eight year old self could see that this was complete and utter crap. I mean, shit lady, I don't even have my elementary school diploma yet and I can see that I'm already NOT what YOU want me to be, which was thin, athletic, and obedient- what makes you think that if I want to be a goddamned professional figure skater or violin virtuoso that, that is remotely achievable? Or that genetics and environment can be possibly overrode by sheer will and ambition?
It was at that point that I realized that I may be smarter than my parents.
I mean, sure, there are those rare exceptions that are usually then played out in movies aired on Lifetime relating to how the underdog managed to persevere and beat the odds- but even at eight I knew I was more likely to be a cautionary tale than TV movie of the week. That realistically, I wasn't going to magically ditch the asthma and flat feet and become the next Olympic athlete. Which I seemed to be more at peace with than those around me.
I am fairly militant in my agnosticism- well, as militant as someone who's main philosophical and religious beliefs can be summarized as "sometimes bad shit happens just because" can be- but sometimes I think the universe, in some twisted bit of randomness, takes great delight in the game of opposites. Like placing a child who would rather hide under the covers with a book eating her feelings, extraordinary only in her ordinariness, within a family comprised of two ridiculously attractive individuals known for their athleticism and popularity. Don't get me wrong- I'm sure this is a fairly frequent occurrence really, parents expecting to see themselves in their children and instead ending up with a pile of recessive genes making them wholly different than anticipated. However, when you are 8, rapidly approaching puberty, and are self-centred in a way that only a child can be, you think that you are the ONLY PERSON ON EARTH to suffer this fate. You know, between eating the cookies you hid under your bed and ace-bandaging your boobs.
When I look at my kids now, at 5 and 2, I can't imagine ever being disappointed about them being...well, THEM. They are so perfect in their imperfection, so like me but deliciously different from me and their father in more ways than I can count. So what if they never develop a fine appreciation for science fiction or the smell of used bookstores? So what if they are more similar to others on my side of the family and decide that they can't live without soccer, baseball, or some other sport that ensures that I will be spending my summer sweating my ass off outdoors getting eaten alive by mosquitoes? They are still MY children. And are perfect.
