Lately there have been times in the ring when I wonder who will win. Me or the toddler. My grand baby is coming closer each day to three and believe me she is truly moving into the age of the mouth. I have heard others referring that the child at two has reached the terrible twos. I have no problems with two, it’s three that I find where all those buttons get pushed so well that I end up looking like a freaking nut job in the end.
At two they are learning and so cute as they say everything for the first time by three they have learned which words and actions will jerks my strings and morph into rapid beast. Could it be my darling baby picked this up from watching Pinocchio too many times? Riley loves that movie and we had a whole conversation on Jimmy Cricket being the conscience. For a two years old she explained it in the standards of adults. The good and the bad and the repercussions of the wrong behaviors and choices. The movie is sophisticated for as child of her age and she got it.
I know that as a grand parent we are endowed with exaggerating what our off springs are capable of doing. In this case that is simply not true. Riley is very smart. Her intelligence is borderline precocious. Dont’ know about anyone else but this character trait grates on my nerves running up the spine at the same rate as nails on a chalk board. My problem is trying to find the proper approach to nip this in the bud yet let her keep the beneficial side effects of being a strong-willed child.
As a parent of three boys hadn’t met this bridge with success which resulted in more than just nights filled with nightmares. Seeking a healthy balance is tedious act when desiring for a child to become a strong adult who makes wise choices and I felt without a heads up of how bad it can get learned that my former techniques were well horrible ideals.
Whatever strengths I had my parents killed it in me, so I was told. From the time I was a teenager they said I had tempers, very bad tempters they would follow that up with. News of this was baffling because as far back as memory goes I was deadly afraid of speaking my rejections. It wasn’t just objections it went into what I was excited about too. When I see pictures of me as a child with the family I am not even standing beside them.
What methods were used have been permanent, repairs have ceased to undo the damage. What has remain are things like I know one way to get my mom off the phone and that is by me being excited about something. Sometime ago I had bought tickets to Bob Dylan. I was excited, rarely did I have money and it took me over forty years to find loose cash to see him and in return she berated with great lengths how she detests Bob Dylan. I never bother to tell her how much I enjoyed his show.
I mistakingly the other day finally spoke to her about my script and how I had a blast imaging Steve Buscemi as the lead actor. Oh good grief how she had to lectured me how Hollywood wouldn’t listen to me and how much she hated Fargo. Another mistake I made of mentioning that I enjoyed it. Now I know that there is a zero to zero chance of my script being signed or for that matter Steve Buscemi being it in. Should that phase me? No and it doesn’t because I am still in lala land with the amount of fun it is bringing me. I also am aware that it all begins with believing and so I chose to believe not only will my screenplay land a contract that it will in fact have Steve Buscemi in it; wouldn’t that just freak my mother out? Would be worth just for that alone. Never mind I need to income or that I would truly love to have this as my profession.
Dealing with my mother, can’t say my dad or my step dad because it’s like they weren’t there enough but she had me right where she wanted me. I had no designs for my own children to be held in this way. Her own fascinations lead me to have to deal with problems at school because of interests in fashion. She followed all the modeling trends and at the age of nine she gave me the “Twiggy” hair cut. If no one remembers Twiggy, she was tall super thin with a boy hair cut. As a nine-year old girl I looked just like a boy in a dress. Did it help that this is around the Johnny Cash’s song came out “A Boy Named Sue” To this day I remember the tears streaming down my cheeks and my mom thought it was because the girl burned my neck with the electric razor, even then I could not say it was because I hated that hair cut or inform her of the grief it caused through it.
These are things that I never wanted my sons to feel that my desires were more important than their feelings or the trouble with speaking ones own mind. May not seem like I have a problem here, this is the only place where I can.
Too many clowns from the past creep up reminding me of all the failures before I open my mouth and say what I feel. These faults are not what I want passed on while at the same time not willing to face a repeat of my boys. That ,my friends is not worth barely surviving again.
You know I have never been a fan of clowns. They have colorful clothing, and do silly stuff all the things that I am afraid to show the world.
While I have a couple of peoples attention, my preoccupation with writing the screen play has once again taken me away from some wonderful bloggers. Thought I could find balance in my day and you know with a two-year around, balance doesn’t happen, at all. At any rate I do miss your interesting perspectives on life and living it. I may not have stopped by for a cup of tea but you haven’t been forgotten either. So I hope you are all doing well and have been experiencing the blessing from our Lord.