Frontin'

I've been seriously mulling over what to call my family and friends on this here blog. I made up a whole list of possible pseudonyms, but not many of them seemed to capture the vibe I get when I think about the real, live person attached to the fake name. However, my daughter's moniker was easy to come up with: Meghan. My kid is totally a Meghan, through and through. In fact, "Meghan" was on the short list of names that my ex-husband and I considered before our child up and popped out. In the end, though, I'm hella glad that we went with another name. Because it made such an insightful and polarizing difference in the way my daughter acts on a daily basis.

Clearly, I find this name to be very girly and pretty, and I like the ring it has when it rolls off my tongue. MEG-han. Huh. MEG-han. Say it out loud, people. (You know you want to. Don't play games with me.) That just sounds so strong and bold and classic and flowery and, ya know, fucking Irish, dude. This is a name that exudes confidence and simplicity and wisdom and Summa Cum Laude from Harvard, 3.95 GPA. It's a name that says, "Take me seriously, world! Hear what I have to say!" Any Meghan is a leader and a feminist and ... I'm sorry, what did you say? What was that about those cheerleading, high school bitches you knew named Meghan?

No offense to any Meghans that happen to be reading this blog (I know of only one, and she doesn't even spell it this way), but I think the very name Meghan sounds just like "punk-ass snot-nose". Call me a fruitcake if you want to (because you would not be the first), but certain words have definitive energy attached to them. They can conjure up vivid mental images or remind you of a long-lost friend, for example. And they can make you weirdly and irrationally emotional, sometimes for no reason at all. For me, Meghan is one of those names. Dunno why.

Of course, this is not at all to say that I do not adore my child. I absolutely and whole-heartedly do, and my anonymous band of peeps can attest to this. I put most of my time and energy into mothering my daughter, and I think that I am moderately to mostly successful in my attempts to turn my once innocent, squishy little baby into a decent and respectful adult member of society. Meghan is sweet and smart and interesting and thought-provoking and seriously funny as fuck. That kid slays me with her wit.

But she's also 7. And I did not realize this previously, but 7 is apparently the gateway drug to backtalk, not listening, and general tween annoyance with the parental units.

Meghan's friend is over at our house right now (we'll call her ... Alice), and do you know what? Blatant disdain for your mother, especially while your friends are present, is not just reserved for years 13-18. The 13-18 subset of the general population does not hold any patents on the following pre-teen behavior: eye rolling, loud sighing, being petty, being materialistic, thinking your parents are totally stupid, and exagerrating for dramatic/comedic effect. In short, Meghan is frontin' for her homie.

Ah, yes. I remember those days well. And since I remember those days well, I've tried to talk to Meghan about this (when her friends are not in earshot) and at least relate some of what I've learned. I also wanted to gauge where she was in the whole "hating your parents" process, in order to (duh) change her balls-out rude behavior. But since it was made clear to me that I have only been alive since she was born, and I have only experienced what she's experienced (nothing more and nothing less), I am of no help or use. I'm just this chick who lives in her house, and my services are only important when childhood logistics come into play. I am a severely, SEVERELY underpaid maid.

And ya know what pisses me off most of all? The fact that the apple does not fall far from the tree. My child is exactly like me. Fuckin' UGH, man. UGH!