My “don’t mess with me” attitude started when I was very young. My mom said I didn’t like strangers. I would cry incessantly if anyone other than my mom, dad, or sister tried to carry me. I had a habit of disliking my teachers on the first day of school and whining my pants off – hmmm, wondering where my 6 year old gets it from.
In grade school, I refused to eat my mom’s delicious Chinese food and insisted on Kool-Aid and McDonalds. I once forced myself to vomit the garlic spinach stir-fry she made just to make the point that I. Did. Not. Like. Spinach!
As a teenager, I gave my mom hell. I would argue to no end why I thought it was a perfectly good idea for me (as a 16 year old) to sleep over at my friend’s party with my boyfriend. When she didn’t agree, I cried, pleaded, and basically acted as a total pain in the ass until she gave in. Thank goodness I don’t have girls.
As an adult, everyone knew not to call me before noon on the weekends because I was sleeping in. If you dared to call early, well, you’d get an ear full from me.
I’ve always been opinionated, assertive, and well, maybe a little bratty. Now that I’m a mom, all that has transferred to my kids. I will argue to no end the benefits of breastfeeding and being a working mom. I will defend my kids’ food choices and my 6 year old’s lack of interest in sports.
Funny enough, when it comes to me these days I’ve let a lot go. I’ll argue on behalf of my kids, but I’m too tired and lazy to do it for myself. I guess that’s the evolution of the “don’t mess with me” attitude.