What to do when they’re just like you….

Oh dear.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

My girl is turning into her mother. In reality she has always been very like me. She (so I’m told) looks like me. (I can’t see it myself as she’s beautiful and I’m quite at peace with the fact that I am very average.) She is very self-contained and happy in her own company. She loves books. She loves singing, and listening to music that has proper lyrics, the sort of music that gives you the same feeling as reading a good book. She loves colouring. She loves baking. She loves to make people laugh and happily makes fun of herself in the process.

But, I’m telling you all the nice ways that she is like me.

The other side of the coin has her getting my prickliness – she doesn’t like to give cuddles unless she wants to (fair enough – but this can be construed as being prickly and can be a bit sad for poor old K when he wants to snuggle up with her and read a book); my control freakery; my stubbornness; my flat-out refusal to co-operate when the mood takes me; my over-riding desire to ALWAYS have the last word; and she doesn’t like being made fun of. She used to stamp her feet in temper when she was very little and I always swore that “I have no idea where she gets that from”, until one day I found myself stamping my foot and hurting it quite badly on an errant scooter that was lying on the lawn at the time.

The worst of all these has to be the control-freakery. It would be fine if only one of us wanted control. But when we both want to call the shots, heaven help us. I’m not in the habit of getting cross in public, if I can absolutely help it. And she knows that. So, she will ask me things that she suspects I will say no to whilst we are in company, because she thinks that I am more likely to say yes if I am shamed into it. But I won’t be bulldozed (see “stubbornness” point above) and when I get a whiff of being manipulated I shut down (see “flat out refusal to co-operate” point above). Hence, today I had to say very loudly, no less than four times, “I’m not discussing this until we get home” whilst leaving the playground, in response to pleadings and “very important reasons” for not doing her homework this evening as planned. Not good. She huffed and puffed, grabbed my arm (red rag to a bull but I kept my horns down), blew a raspberry (very Amelia Jane), and said “poo” (must check what she is currently reading as this is all a bit too Enid Blyton).

Luckily, unlike me, she doesn’t bear grudges.

She’s very like her father in that respect and moves on very quickly from any sort of minor altercation. So by the time we had reached the end of the road from school she was happily wittering on about this and that. She apologised when we got near the house and when we came in I explained (calmly) my reasons for not backing down. We compromised and set a time for slightly later than planned to start the dreaded homework. Bloody homework. Poo.


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