Both hands on the keyboard

I should have started blogging earlier. It would have helped me keep from wringing Cassie's neck. I'm having a hard time believing we share genetic code. What happened?

After dropping Sonja off at play practice, Cass and I went grocery shopping, mostly for stuff for her to take hunting tomorrow. Things were going well, she'd only ran into me with the cart two or three times and hadn't thrown too big of a fit when I said no to the six hundredth thing she asked for. With arms full off chili and soup cans, I turned around to discover she and the cart were gone. "Cassie? Caaaaassie? Cassandra, dear? CASSIE!!!" After extensive looking, I find her in the greeting card isle looking at birthday cards.

"What are you doing? Where's the cart? My purse was in there."

"Nothing. Looking at cards for me." Her birthday is next Friday, 12 years young. "You know, Mom, you can just buy me a phone or give me a couple hundred dollars."  This from the girl who recently asked for an advance on her allowance to buy me a birthday present but then used the money to buy herself a book. It's the thought that counts, and at least it was a book and not heroin, but I can't believe she is completely oblivious to other people's feelings. Except when she isn't.

Miss Cheeks also loves to tell me how much fun drama is. Whenever she can, she likes to tell so and so what so and so said and then gleefully watch them fight. Cass plays the reorganization of trios into diodes game like others play World of Warcraft. "It lets me know who is popular and important." How do I not choke her????

Don't get me started on how boy crazy she is. She averages about three life-crippling crushes a week. When the object of her affections starts to pay attention to her, she switches her focus to one who isn't interested so she can pine.

"What's wrong with me, Mother?" Bod hoo hoo.

"I don't know, Honey. I really don't know." This cannot be the fruit of my womb. Sigh.

Cassie's sense of humor--she tells a confusing story which only she laughs at, then immediately she tells the story of telling the last story and laughing. To this, she laughs even harder and starts in on the third incomprehensible rendition of the same story. To her credit, by the time she is rolling on the floor with tears running out of her eyes, confused bystanders are laughing at her spastic behavior...hmmm, guess we do have a little bit in common.

Her antics wouldn't hurt so much if I didn't love her to pieces. On the one hand I want to stop her from creating situations that cause herself and others to suffer. I want to stop her rapid cycle of snotty pride and crushing self-loathing. I'd like to convince her how valuable her love, forgiveness, and generosity can be. On the other, I know it is her life to live and learn from. While I can dole out circumstances that make certain behaviors unrewarding, I can't actually stop her from doing anything.  All I can do is watch and hold out my towel of unconditional love to wrap her in when life soaks her. Momming hurts.

Think about feeling this way for 6,872,245,726 people. Sorry for my own childish antics, God.