I don’t think I have a problem with children. Especially my own. I like and love my dear daughters. Even their resistance to pooping in the potty, even their occasional tantrums. They are just being the purest little beings they can be, which is their job. They are doing their job. And I am trying to do mine. Not great every day, but for the most part, I attempt to do the right thing, whatever it is. Most of the time I go to bed at night feeling pretty good about me and them.

I am coming to realize, however, that I do have problems which revolve around the fact that I have children. Peripheral problems. Stress on close relationships because of my having had children. Issues with money because I haven’t worked a full-time job in two and a half years. Stress surrounding my own creative needs. I do not believe the girls cause me half as much stress as the complicated side situations that exist as a result of all of it. As we watched Cinderella AGAIN yesterday, I continued to wonder how things worked out for ol’ Cindy after she gets married off to Princey-poo.

Her dad, well meaning and rich, when faced with raising his only daughter alone after Cinderella’s mother died, decided it would be best to marry a socially well-placed widow with two daughters Cinderella’s age. Then he dies, leaves his money to the big bitch of a stepmother, Druscilla and Anastasia’s mother… what is her name, anyway? Oh yeah, last name is Tremain. What’s her first name? Lady Tremaine, the interweb says. That sounds about right, who cares what her first name was, anyway? Did anyone pursue her story? Lady Tremaine? What a crappy lot she got stuck with. It didn’t seem like she had any help around the house after Cinderella’s dad died, except for, of course, for Cinderella. She got stuck with her uber-bratty brats and her late husband’s kid, too. Though, nothing excuses treating your stepchild, especially after her second parent dies, like an indentured servant. And from the looks of her modest mansion, she could have afforded a nanny/babysitter and some kind of cleaning service.

Strangely, this type of thing — fathers not raising their children after the loss of their wives — happened on both my father’s and mother’s side of the family. My great grandfather’s wife left him (didn’t die, just left) with three kids (apparently she was young and after three kids popped out, she decided she still wanted to have some fun in her life… woah!), and instead of raising them himself, he decided to put them in a Catholic boarding school to be raised by the nasty kind of nuns. I won’t go into why this was not a good idea, but it wasn’t. Then, on Dad’s side of the family, his mother died when he was four, giving birth to my Aunt. On her deathbed, the woman I grew up calling Grandmother, promised my dad’s mom she would take care of the baby. I don’t think my original grandmother meant to ONLY take care of the baby, but she took it a bit too literally…  She married my grandfather after my grandmother passed away. This, too, did not work out well. Maybe people should consider taking care of their own children. It doesn’t seem like anyone is going to treat them as well as their parents, whether or not they are dads or moms. Yeah, I know, it worked out in the end for Cinderella, but who knows what kind of emotional scars she had to endure, how it effected her relationship to the handsome prince, her relationship with her own children…

1 Comment

  1. “Stress surrounding my own creative needs. I do not believe the girls cause me half as much stress as the complicated side situations that exist as a result of all of it.” Tremendously interesting perspective. Almost all of my stress comes from the peripheral stuff, but I’ve been seeing it as child induced. I like this new way of drawing a protective boundary around child and saying that the frustration and fear stuff that comes out because of his existence is not because of him.

    Even more interesting Cinderella perspective. Why didn’t her Dad make sure she was well taken care of, and why didn’t he do it himself? Harumph. Now I have 347 reasons to loathe that tale. Thank you kindly.

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