In the end there is not much that separates us from them. We are meant to give to them. We are meant
to be a bottomless source of love to them. But we use them in the same way. We demand of them
bottomless love and at least some service. Service and love. Sounds like a Sunday sermon. But I am
not talking about service to God, or God’s love. I am talking about the future, our children. (A terrifying
thought that something that I produce would be responsible for anything, but hell, why not. I’m pretty
responsible.) I would put emphasis on the bottomless part of the third sentence of this paragraph. Not
that we as parents are tried or that we don’t fail, but the expectation is there, that expectation that our
patience will not end.
Parenting can make us all lose identity, but then they do things like this and you don’t care.
I am well on my way to becoming a Tiger-mom and the results are undeniable. At 3 YY (years-young) she’s reading at a 5th grade level, a concert-worthy pianist, and just yesterday was asked to tryout for the world cup teeeee…wait. That was all a dream I had last night. This was one of those dreams where you wake up and for the first couple of seconds you are really satisfied with yourself because you’ve reached great heights and it all seems so real — yet you had nothing to do with it. Like being born rich, or Lebron James, or Gorbachev (no one can tell me that birthmark on his bald baby head had nothing to do with his success).
Striking resemblance? Based on Gorby’s success later in life, I’m hoping so!
Some of these career choices may be a bit dated (what with cars driving themselves these days and carpentry being outsourced to Sweden/Ikea). Bravo to Richard Scary for not kowtowing to the cultural norm of the day and asking the reader if they want to be a good cook, like their father.
Last night I was reading the great Richard Scary classic, “Best Word Book Ever” or something about words, I can’t remember. It’s really long and there are surprisingly few words in it. When I flipped to the page about professions, I asked the logical question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I may or may not have blocked everything on the page from her line of sight except the doctor/pig and may or may not have lead her a bit with, “…a doctor?” To which she (exasperated) responded, “ewwwwww, no daddy, I’m going to be a Princess when I grow up!”
I followed up with, “Are you sure you don’t want to help people when they’re sick or injured or do something else for work besides be a Princess?” To which she responded dryly, “I don’t want to work when I grow up, it’s boring.”