Testing. Testing. 1, 2, 3.
Eeeeeeeeek!
Did you hear that high pitch squeal?
It is the parenting feedback I receive from my omniscient, nineteen year old daughter who still lives at home and feels compelled to share her child-rearing wisdom with me:
“When I have kids, I’m never going to MAKE them attend church.”
“Just let him wear the holey blue jeans. All the kids wear them like that.”
“That’s has a hole in it. You’re letting her wear THAT?”
“What’s the big deal? Why can’t he go to the party?”
Every. Single. Parenting decision I make is met with an equal and completely opposite objection. If it is not a verbal argument, it is the raised-eyebrow-followed-by-a-frown-followed-by-what-seems-to-be-a-sigh-that-starts-with-the-letter-T. In her eyes, I am the Ralph Malph of Motherhood and it is up to her to sway me to the Fonzie side.
On one hand, I am delighted to have raised an opinionated human being who feels free to interject her passionate point of view whenever possible. On the other, shut the hell up.
Parenting is tricky enough without feeling like Al Sharpton is taking up residence in the basement.
