Dear Sweet Girl,
I’ve decided rather than write you all of these letters about how you might be able to learn from my mistakes, I’ll share them with the world. Because I can, you know? And what’s more, people are literally clamoring for advice from a mom of one with little experience or marked measures of success. See? That’s sarcasm, love. You haven’t really grasped it yet, but you’re surprisingly astute for a five year old.
I’ll chat with you about all sorts of things that I’m not an expert on. I do have pretty good research skills, and the ability to make people think that I’m an expert through my powers of persuasion and question dodging. Fake it till you make it, baby. That’s my game.
Actually, right now I’m thinking about posting on Facebook about how awesome it is to be so carefree that I’m totally fine with you playing in the yard on your own. You’ve taken some books to your treehouse (not really a treehouse, but a part of the swingset – what do you think I’m fucking crazy?) and are sitting out there reading among nature like a young Laura Ingalls. People really love when they hear how other parents are more comfortable with their parenting than they are. Alas, you’ve come running in because you’ve heard some mysterious noise from the alley (trash bins being rolled in) that you’ve discerned to be wolves (in North Texas). That’s how you roll, baby. Scared the fuck out of that treehouse. Whatever, we’re carefree, right?
Here’s whatcha don’t know: I lived a lot before you came along. You’ll have a *very* hard time tricking me when you’re older (not that I expect that. You’re the worst narc I know). While I may be the model of compassionate and contemplative parenting in the eyes of people who only read my Facebook updates and never actually spend any time with me, I will say that I’ve done my fair share of living in my early years.
I love you, sweets. And I got your back.