Bad Parent: Good Girl
My daughter is too nice.
by Sasha Brown-Worsham
February 7, 2008
I have no such luck. My petite blond daughter is willing to sit on the sidelines, her hands folded neatly in her lap, a Stepford smile upon her face. What would my high school friends think if they knew that I — the one whose date wore jeans to the prom — had given birth to the homecoming queen?
People tell me I am crazy. Everyone wants a sweet baby like Sam. Don't get me wrong, I love her. My kid is wonderful. But I do barely recognize her as my own. Where is that chip on her shoulder? The mean streak? The desire to kick people? Could my child be the nice, sweet side of myself I thought was a myth along the lines of Bigfoot?
I was the kid who was banned from my friends' houses — the bad influence. I pilfered porn magazines from my father's stash and passed them out on the playground; I took crayons from my art teacher and wrote swear words on my neighbor's stucco walls; I stole earrings from a local store, wrapped them up and gave themselves to myself as a birthday present so my mother would not catch on, although she did. And she smiled — just before forcing me to return them to the store.
I was kind of hoping my genes would win out and we'd get an impish child.
Discipline was not my parents' strength. Refugees of the 1960s, they found my bad behavior "cute" and "spunky," so it should come as no surprise that more than thirty years later, I am wishing their granddaughter had a little spunk of her own. But so far she is all sugar and spice. Where is my little rebel?
Maybe my husband's easy personality that has tainted my child. Had I married a man as ornery, capricious and moody as myself, we would have ended up living in Tahiti, in debt to our knees and probably on the lam. Instead, I married a man whose most egregious childhood transgression was passing a note during church one Sunday morning. My husband is the kind who offers his neighbors a hand, chats with strangers about our dog and did not drink until he was of age.
Still, I was kind of hoping my genes would win out and we'd get an impish child, a mischief-maker. I know we still have time. I barely know the kid. She can't even write yet, let alone scrawl swear words. I have a box of crayons waiting to see if she'll have a career in graffiti. If she does, her father will be mad — but not me. On the day she acts up, I will finally recognize her as my own.
Photograph courtesy of Siobhan Connally
©2008 Sasha Brown-Worsham and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Sasha Brown-Worsham's writing has been published in Runner's World, Parents, Parenting and many more publications. She also writes a marathon blog for Fit Pregnancy. She lives and works in Boston, Mass., where she also tries to keep her pre-schooler from killing her infant. |
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