I’m Over Being My Kid’s Favorite Person

Some parents believe their kids were born remembering tidbits of past lives as old-timey movie stars and what not. I’m totally on board with this idea. Kids can definitely come into this world with lingering memories from previous lives because I’m fairly certain my daughter is a reincarnated Chihuahua.

You know how lapdogs can be slightly neurotic and overly obsessive with a human they consider their ‘person’? This is my daughter, and I am her person. She is always following me, sitting in my lap, and incessantly jumping at my leg to be picked up. She has yet to shit on the carpet, but I’m pretty sure that’s coming. And I’ve decided I won’t rub her nose in it.

Separation anxiety, you say? Not a chance. This level of clinginess can only be explained by her past life as a miniature canine. I’ve considered calling a vet because this shit is getting out of control.

My child is obsessed with me. She is a hard-core mommy enthusiast, and there is no escaping or satisfying her need to have me. Her adoration is not a cutesy, Forest Gump peas and carrots kind of thing. It’s more like a white on rice, stalker kind of thing.

Our mother-child bond surpasses that of Gorilla Glue; it is covalent.

No level of closeness is close enough unless I’m holding her tight and our faces are smashed together. I’m thankful she doesn’t know where babies come from because she would absolutely try to crawl back in there when I wasn’t looking. Maybe that would be close enough. I doubt it though.

Some moms complain that their kids follow them into the bathroom. My child follows me into the bathroom, sits on my lap, and stares at me. I poop making direct eye contact with another human being. I guess this could prove to be a useful skill if I ever find myself in a correctional facility or a door-less bathroom stall struggling with a mild case of food poisoning, but in my current life, it’s just disturbing.

I shower under her watchful eye every morning. She stands with her head inside the curtain, and asks every four seconds if I’m almost done. The whole three minutes I’m in there. I’ve abandoned all hope that I’ll ever shave any of my parts again.  She just doesn’t have time for that.

I’ve read all the articles. I’ve tried to employ the recommended tactics. I tell her where I’m going; I tell her Mommy is always coming back. She is not buying into that shit. It is a well-known fact that as soon as I leave her line of sight, I vaporize. This makes her sad and stressed out, which makes me sad and stressed out because I’m a prisoner in my own home with a two-and-half-foot prison warden monitoring my every move.

Let me qualify all of this with the obligatory I love my kid statement. I do love my child, and I love that I’m her dude. I just don’t love the fact that her head is currently shoved so far up my ass that I’m starting to taste organic animal crackers. Honestly, I’m kind of over being her favorite person. It would be such a relief if she could enjoy the company of someone else. Just long enough for me to catch my breath and recharge. I am drowning in her love for me.

Everyone I talk to about this says the same thing. You’ll miss this someday. Bullshit. I’m wiling to bet I miss this about as much as I miss being constipated when I was pregnant. I know this will eventually pass. She will someday forget about her past experience as a preoccupied pooch. I’m just hoping it’s sooner rather than later because I’m losing my mind.

© 2015 December McIntyre, as first published on Scary Mommy.

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