The toddler inside of me that wears grown up clothes and remembers to put her shoes on is not fooling anyone. Just yesterday my four-year-old (almost five! as he reminds me constantly) told my husband who was cooking, “You have to make the food, Daddy. Mommy can’t use the stove until she’s growed up.”
I just grinned and enjoyed his ability to see into my soul the way only a child can.
I’m obstinate, though. Put out by things I don’t want to do. Like rules. And taxes. And dishes. And laundry.
I gripe about having to make my own breakfast, like a commoner, when I’m snotty and hungover and being the terrible morning person that I am. And when people urge me to seek out what others have done to achieve success, I whine inside about how I want to do it my way.
I don’t want to be like everybody else.
But there are rules.
And rules are meant to be broken.
Yes, that little snippy sentence weaves it’s way into every part of me.
But not THESE rules. Not the writer ones. Like the way people have to kiss ass to get there. I don’t want to kiss ass. I don’t want people to kiss my ass, either. I want them to be genuinely intrigued by my writing.
But there are also a plethora of writer-types out there who all want the same thing. And who am I to be so special? Why do I get to break rules and do my own thing? I’m just a snarky little bartender who can make people laugh in such a way that they’re not sure if it’s offensive. I’m no one special. Who am I to demand genuine concern?
That’s just it. I should know better by now. But toddler Molly is smug and insistent and wants what she wants.
Perhaps one of these days I should just let her grow up.
But maybe not today.