Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Mom, I do NOT like English

What's up with kids rebelling at every possible turn?  It's almost as though the things I love the most about me, they refuse to become; while the things I hate the most about me, they infuse into their being in every possible crevice.  It's ridiculous.  Was I ever really this way--I don't think so--at least not to this extent...

Tonight, as we're sitting at the table in the basement...Marissa looks over at me and states with authority and satisfaction in her voice, "Mom I do NOT like English."  How is this even possible?  I love to read, to analyze, to write, to imagine, to breathe in the sweet scent of books--none of which is carried over to her.  I did not raise her this way.  I read to my daughter, wrote her notes--to which she reciprocated, loved the fact that teachers complimented her on her vocabulary and her writing.  And now, these frightful teenage years have hit, where it's almost her JOB to defy everything that stands to be most important to me.  As the words rolled off her tongue, I sat in silence--knowing that a good debate could ensue, but not easily taking the bait that I know she wants me to take.  Instead, I clench my jaw and do what any lover of the language does to vent--write.

I've decided to not take these things personally.   To actually look inside of myself to try to remember what it was like to be 15.  The year was 1985, and I hated English.  Math was my favorite subject, followed by Science.  English was never a challenge--rather an easy "A".  Math made me think--besides my mother sucked at Math, so it was another thing that made me different from her.  There was no way I wanted to be anything like my mom--she wasn't cool like me; she didn't know what life was really all about; basically, the woman didn't have a clue.  She READ all the time--boring.  She forced me to WRITE thank you notes to my relatives--god, I hated doing that.  Seriously.  I couldn't just call?

And as I sit here, thinking, contemplating, I can't help but smile just a bit.  Because now, as an adult, there's nothing like getting lost in a book (or in a Nook).  I look forward to sending out cards--whether they be Christmas cards, Thanksgiving cards, birthday cards, thank you cards--heck, I even send out Halloween cards, Easter cards, and Valentine's Day cards.  They mean something--even if it's only to me.

So as I write, and as my daughter continues to complain about how much she hates the class, hates the teacher, and absolutely can't stand anything to do with reading and writing, I know that one day she will have an appreciation for it.  Until then I'll continue to sit with her at the table, listening to her papers rattling and her deeply sighing--knowing that one day she'll be doing the same for her daughter.

And that's when I'll laugh.

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