I grew up poor. The kind of poor where you go to the Salvation Army to pick up free food, free clothes- free anything. The kind with government cheese and free lunches. The kind where describing it as "dirt poor" would be doing it a favor. We lived on the very edge of the good school district, a shabby little five room rental with a bare front yard. The kids that I went to school with- all from well to do, normal families- were not my friends. Today they'd call what they said and did to me in elementary school "bullying". Back then, it was just the poor little misfit getting what she deserved. No matter what I did, there was no way to fit in- I looked different than everyone else. I wore whatever shabby rags my mom could find at the clothes closet for me. I got one pair of shoes at the beginning of the school year- white canvas shoes, not even name brand Keds, but some generic Dollar General version. By November they'd have holes in the toes, but I'd have to wear them anyway. There wasn't money for more than that pair.
I tell you this not to make you feel sorry for the poor little greasy haired child that I was. I tell you so that you can understand why it pisses me off that my children are such ungrateful little crap monkeys. Being poor for my kids means having to get water at the country club instead of soda. It means possibly choosing between the New Balance and the Adidas because we aren't buying both. Under no circumstance would they ever be caught dead in shoes from Target, much less Dollar General. They aren't growing up rich by any means, but their proverbial cup runneth over.
That's why yesterday afternoon when my daughter screamed- for the zillionth time this week- about how she "never gets anything" I freaking lost it. Like head spinning, pea soup shooting out of my mouth freaking lost it. The child gets every single last thing that she asks for. I seriously cannot remember the last time that she needed, or even wanted, something that someone didn't rush right out and obtain it for her.
Now, clearly I have to take some responsibility in the spoiling of my own child. I suppose I have a slight complex- the "I had nothing so I want you to have everything" mentality. I don't mind giving her things, making sure that she fits in- I just want her to be appreciative of it. A nice "Thank you, mother dear, for everything that you and my wonderful father do for me." Would that be so difficult?
Apparently so. So yesterday when she brought yet another book order form in and had circled fifty different books that totaled a gagillion dollars, she fully expected me to whip out the checkbook and place the order. Never mind that pesky grocery budget or that her brother needs new cleats for football- she wanted every single book, and I was the Wicked Witch of the Midwest for not getting them for her. I'm all about some compromise (especially when it works in my favor) so I told her to get it down to under $20, and that was all I was paying. If she wanted to spend more than that, she was using her own money.
Oh. My. God. You would have thought that I told the child that she wasn't eating this week so that I could afford a spa getaway. She screamed. She cried. She wishes I would just die. I never do anything for her. Blah blah blah. If this is what we get at 10 years old, then I wish I would just die so that I don't have to deal with the teenage years!
So no books, I said. You don't deserve anything. Go to your room.
Then the guilt settled in. I mean, it's books. It's not like she was asking for video games or some other useless brain drain. She wanted literature. Could I really punish the child by taking away the gift of the written word?
Damn English major.
So of course this morning, I pulled out the cash and took the book order to the school. Drove it there myself, taking time out of my morning to make sure that it arrived on time. I justified it by only buying two books from her list.
That'll teach her.
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