I promised to play catch up since writing my last Seven Deadly Sins post, so here I sit. Truth be told, maybe I feel more like I should be writing about sloth or wrath, but we won’t go there, so that you don’t say, “you need to take it easy,” and Liza doesn’t say, “well, ya. Sorry, but ya.” Liza, I totally hear ya.
I’m gonna tag team these babies, pride and vanity, since they’re so interlinked for me.
I didn’t grow up in a proud environment. I was raised to be humble, to the point of never needing help because if I had to struggle, it was my own struggle alone. While that seem like being too proud to ask for help, it’s really a converse affect – having so little esteem that being worthy of help doesn’t come to mind.
So what am I proud of? What have I ever been proud of? My ability to drop weight at the drop of a hat and have women hate me upon first glance. The fact that I’ve never been shot down bed-styles. The fact that my IQ at seven (yes, I know it means nothing) was in the upper genius range and I worked two years ahead in math and got accepted into four universities without finishing high school. That I have rarely ever edited anything I’ve written, yet somehow I have convinced people that I can write – when I don’t even think so myself.
Basically, my self-instilled pride all comes down to lust and manipulation and bullshitting. And I guess being naturally good with numbers.
What do I really sit and think I’m proud of? What am I vain about?
Isobel. I have a daughter who was never meant to be, who spent the first year of her life surrounded by violence, self-destruction, and crying and yelling (both hers and mine). She should, for all intents and purposes, have an inherent fear of people, she doesn’t. She might be afraid to speak her mind, and she’s so far from that, I’m almost laughing aloud thinking of it. She might have been unattractive, but no, I get stopped on the street on a daily basis for people to tell me she’s gorgeous, should model (ha, not with this temperament) or looks like me (*gloats*).
Some days, until she invariably puts a sock on top of her head and calls it a hat, I am so convinced of her genius. I mean, she knows so many words, right? She gets like, four part commands – she just refuses to comply. She started walking at nine months and if I really wanted to put some effort into it, I bet we could be potty trained in a few months. Something had to happen from her never sleeping in the first year of her life, and I’m thinking it was osmosis.
But this is a dangerous game, right? ‘Specially to be writing about on a mommy blog. Cuz this is a way of me announcing to the world that yes, I do measure her progress against other kids, and hey, maybe I’m so much of a bitch that I think mine’s better than yours. Ha. Not true.
Or is it?
No, seriously not true, I’m just screwin’ with ya.
