Thursday, March 21, 2013

my only love sprung from my only hate


Part I.

I am currently twenty-one years old—just legal enough to buy a bottle of nice wine for my parents on their birthdays. 

At twenty-one years old, I am just young enough to take immense pride in the solid two decades of living I’ve achieved and just old enough to realize how extremely much I have left to live and learn.

At twenty-one years old, I am just barely beginning to think about marriage and families and raising children. My heart is just beginning to twinge with envy as I watch mothers pushing chubby little cherubic infants around in their baby buggies; my body is gently nudging visions motherhood into my head; my ever-curious mind is beginning to ponder problems that have plagued the human race for ages. Such as: how exactly does one go about stopping a two-year-old’s temper tantrum? 

At twenty-one years old, I have begun to have daydreams of a miniature version of myself. 
I can see myself holding her after her delivery, a precious little bundle of love.  
(The pains of childbirth, in my imagination, are glossed over and brushed aside. But my mother never fails to remind me of my own twelve-hour journey out of her womb. Sorry, Mom. Slow and steady wins the race, right?)


I already know that this future little daughter is the most beautiful baby in the world. I can see her first Christmas; hear her learning her first words; watch her leaving for her first day of school. I haven’t even met this child, and I already know that I want her world to be perfect. 
Pain, sorrow, and suffering have no place in the world that I will give this little girl.

So I decided that there are three things I will never, ever allow my daughter to do.

First:
She will not make friends. 

Human beings are just plain-old-annoying. They complicate everything
Let another human being into your life, and you’ve just let in a whole lot of frustration, hours wasted on miscommunication, tears shed over misunderstandings, and elevated heart rates caused by the stress of trying to comprehend another human being.
Other humans are so mystifying and frustrating, because they’re not me
They don’t talk like I would, act like I would, or do anything exactly the way I would have them do it. It’s difficult to understand other humans, because none of them look at the world exactly the way I do. Other human beings, on the whole, are problematic. 
And they are hurtful. 
My daughter’s precious, fragile young heart will open itself up to a wide variety of people, welcome them in, and none of them will be able to give her the perfect love she deserves. 
By its very definition, “human love” means imperfect love. 
She will have none of that.

I said goodbye to my friend at the train station, and I thought to myself: if I was my mother, I wouldn’t want my daughter to be friends with you
My daughter, I thought, would be protected from every possible wound to her tender little heart. She will never feel alone while surrounded by a crowd of people; she will never find herself unable to express the secrets of her heart to her best friend; she will never experience the sting of a cold shoulder or a cool word.
She will be protected from the off-handed comment that stings, shielded from any joke that would hit a sensitive spot, guarded against any person who could possibly break her trust.

My daughter will not make friends.

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