Because it really is personal…

Y’know, most of the time I am content with my life. really, I am. I have 4 children, mostly independent, a husband who’s willing to work long hours so I can stay home and tend house. I can get dressed when and how I choose, cook what I want for supper, have lunch with a friend…all that good sort of housewifey stuff. It’s a good life and I’m liking it, mostly.

Kids,tho, they have a way of monkey-wrenching the works sometimes. They get these personalities, each one different from the other, that clash like orange and turquoise. One makes the other feel stupid. The other makes the one feel dorky. Fisticuffs ensue, people threaten to run away, or they punch holes in the door, or they just disappear into their room until everyone has gone to bed, emerging for a cup of ramen or a bowl of cereal.

You can *try*, making them sit down and write a list of everything good about the other…that works when they’re 6, not so much when they’re 16. Each one says they’re not going to show the other respect until the other shows respect first. Yeah, that works. *snort*

So, you negotiate a cold war of sorts. You tell the one who has a car that he is not required to drive the non-carred one anywhere, unless he just wants to. You tell the non-driver (don’t ask, I don’t feel like going there right now) that he isn’t required to spend time with the driver, but he can’t ask for rides either. You seperate them, congratulating yourself on the wisdom of having their rooms at the opposite ends of the house. You send one off to school on the bus (O! The Humiliation!), and talk to the other about his propensity for making one feel really, really stupid.

You also realize he comes by it naturally. I was the Uber-Nerd in high school, picked on by everyone unless they wanted to cheat off my test. I grew a thick skin and a potent tongue, dripping with sarcasm. I was stellar at making people feel stupid. He and I discussed this, how it’s one thing at school, it’s another to do it to one’s own brother.

I guess it’s largely my fault. Sarcasm still finds it’s way into my conversation.

Maybe I shoulda been a psychologist.

I wonder sometimes, especially when negotiating the treacherous waters of teenage angst, what would have happened if I chose education over parenthood. What if I had decided to get that degree in biochemistry, gone to medical school, and become a psychiatrist. I’d be doing exactly the same thing, only getting paid $300/ hour for it.