So my son is my easy kid, right? That's what I always thought.
Okay, not always. Originally, during the brief time I was pregnant, I was absolutely horrified at the thought of having a boy. I didn't (still don't) understand boys. I wanted a daughter. Girls were easy! I AM a girl! I totally get girls! Right?
So then I had a girl.
And a boy.
On the same day. Which was weird.
Anyway, as it turns out? The opposite of what I thought was going to be true was actually true. I had this son who, after the initial year or so of his life during which he completely hated me, was actually the easiest kid ever. No matter what I asked of him he agreed. If I started a sentence with, "Could someone-" he was up to do whatever I was going to ask before I could complete the thought. On top of all that? He's freaking hilarious. And not kid funny. Adult funny. A lady in Kroger made that very clear one day. (She didn't call CPS though. It was questionable only for a few minutes.)
I've never understood my daughter.
Except, actually? I've come to realize that I do.
I've always thought she was so different than me, and you know? She is. Because she's smarter than me. She's more assertive than me. She's braver than me. She's far more beautiful and kindhearted and brilliant than I could ever dream of being.
I understand that I'll never deserve a kid as awesome as she is. That she makes me want to be a better mom. That she'll probably take over the world one day, no thanks to me. She's just that cool.
My son is just like me. I understand him too.
I understand that sometimes he's funny because he's hurting inside. I understand that he really believes that if he's just good enough and tries hard enough, then it will make everything okay. And most of all? I understand that he's harder on himself than anyone else could ever dream of being.
Just like his mom.
I don't know how to make any of this okay. I just know I don't want my kid to be sitting in therapy when he's thirty-six, wondering why he just can't get it right.