Today I realized something that absolutely mortified me, made me ashamed of myself—yet also helped me understand my sometimes passive-aggressive behavior. I am actually jealous of my kid.
I guess that’s a compliment to me as a mom, right? After all, I’m jealous that she gets to do activities that my family could never afford—there were three of us kids growing up, after all—and of all the comforts she has as my kiddo, like me tucking her in at night in a special “nest” of blankets, or the rituals she has for eating, teeth brushing, even getting up in the morning. All of her special nicknames—my sisters both had them but I never did, not with my parents, anyway—and her being able to pursue her own interests and being given choices and other special elements in her life are things that I wish I could say I had in my life, too.
But I also know that my parents did the best they could raising me and my sisters. I know that they had it harder than I do, and they worked hard to provide for us each day. And maybe one day my daughter will have an even bigger advantage than the one I had when raising her. I should be proud that she’s able to have this life, that I am able to give it to her.