“Jealous? Me? No. I’m not jealous of my son, I’m proud of him. I’m not exactly jealous of my daughter, I envy her maybe a better way to put it….”
That’s me denying the obvious and crowing the obvious to others. Of course I’m proud of my children. And yeah, in a way I’m jealous of them too.
You see I never amounted to much. I’m not tall, a squat 5 feet 5 and 3/4 inches. I don’t have big, sparkly eyes, or dark hair that, when left to it’s own devices, becomes a mass of feminine curls. You know the kind. Those that stylists charge money to style into your limp locks on the special occasions. My boobs are too big, my curves are too curvy, my legs are too stocky…..well, you get the drift. It’s not all old age either – I’ve been bigger than most since I was ‘little’. My sister and brother were skinny, I was ‘plump’. When we hit teens, I was the first girl in my year – and the next 3 – to develop a bust and get curves to hips. All very sexy unless you were aged 11 in 1973. In 1973 11, 12 and 13 year olds were pretty much stick like, almost boyish in their pre-pubescent stage. So me looking like a 16 year old 11 year old caused almost a greater degree of amusement to the 180 or so girls of the 1st 3 years of high school than Spotsize’s spots or Bombhead’s hair.
So as my daughter grew into a woman and developed into a tall, leggy, curvy – but not too curvy, attractive female, with a ready smile, big, sparkly eyes and those graceful curls, I found I envied her. She has a stronger personality. She has a head for survival. She has a heart of gold and the ability from within to draw strength from that heart and push through stuff that, quite frankly would have killed me.
My daughter has lived on the streets, traveled to far distant places across the world and back, survived with no money – only her skills in communication and her tenacity kept her going.
My daughter is no angel, please don’t mis-understand me. She’s more of a rebel that I ever was….and I was – once! Her life choices make me frown, and we disagree often….but she’s gorgeous, and loving, and caring, and bubbly and not at all scared to be who she is.
Then there’s my son.
I can honestly say I am jealous of my son. He has the things my daughter doesn’t. He has inherited my straw-like fair/brown hair, fair skin and so on, though I hasten to add he’s slim. That is because he tends to play tennis or get so busy he forgets to eat. It helps that he’s about 6 feet 2 inches tall too. No, it’s not his looks that is the cause of my jealousy, it is the fact that he is an intellectual. He has the brain I wished I had. He has the sense of self I wished I had. He too has traveled the world and I think back to the day and I wished I had, then gaze at the numerous photos, the old heart longing.
Alongside that, my son has a way of learning and then adding to that and becoming so much better, far superior to his mother. When he was young I taught him how to play chess. He learned. He improved. He can beat me every time now. When he was young I taught him to use his imagination and write. He learned. He improved. Now his writing is far superior to mine. He makes my attempts at stories look like something from a stroppy school child.
Well maybe I am. Maybe now I’m old, and my children have surpassed me so, I’m having a middle aged tantrum. Maybe I have striven to give my children everything I have, re-enforcing the need to learn, the need to share, the need to care, the need to explore and so on. Maybe I live my life of dreams long gone through my children. Maybe that’s all a mother should do.
But my oh my – what can I say – I’m jealous of my children but I am so damned proud to be their Mum!