The perfect recipe: A dash of patience and a pinch of love

When shaved, her comment was, "Hey, I look just like the guy from Avatar!"

Case and point when it comes to raising very gifted children: discipline is necessary when needed; not abuse.

I have come to a realization that my child is going to be the way she is. Regardless of how much I had reflected on my past, it only led me to depression, frustration and bitter resentment. I have lashed out. I’m not very proud of myself. I do not want to be the image of my mother.

I’m grateful I have a very understanding daughter. She looks up to me and imitates everything I do. I do find it annoying at times, though I am somewhat flattered. I’ve never been considered in that manner before. I’ve been brought up to think I’m the most worthless piece of vessel to ever set foot on earth. Needless to say, it was not a very happy childhood.

I’ve always told her the truth. Even when I provide her with answers to her questions, she still has a level of skepticism looming over her head. I have considered ignoring the idiosyncrasies she has, but there are some habits I still have to nit-pick. Maybe she has been overwhelmed by praises where by she believes she doesn’t need to pick up after herself. I don’t tease to belittle, but there’s a certain tone to get your point made clear. She clearly doesn’t like to be called “stinky monkey”. She has improved her daily routine. That’s more than enough to get that habit nipped.

We’ve tried to get her interest level in the arts. She has this disposition in a sense that she’s already good at what she does because she knows how smart she is. (O_O)?! Okay, let me clarify what my mother thought about my talent as an artist:

“Is that the best you can do?” She would retort with a scoff whenever I showered her with hand-made greeting cards.

When it came to playing musical instruments, my mother believed I was being difficult by not wanting to learn from the teacher. I already made it clear to her that I did not like the teacher’s methods; one of which was hitting my knuckles with a ruler. How can anyone play properly with swollen knuckles? According to my mother, it was just all in my head. I may have been a prepubescent child, but I had weighed the option: pain versus paying attention to details of the lesson; Pain wins.

Before I start fuming emotional exasperations, I play better by listening. I was playing on my own one day on the piano. It was right after my sister had finished her piano practice. I pretty much imitated what she had played. My mother came over to me with surprise.

“How come you can’t play like that when you’re having your lessons?”

I responded, “I don’t have anyone hitting me.”

From then on, I would practice after my sister finished her session. That was thirteen years ago. I play the guitar now. I’ve tried teaching my daughter. She hasn’t picked it up since she complained her fingers hurt pressing on the strings. We tried having her play the drums. Even then, she gets bored beating on it. I guess she has yet figured out how to improvise. We told her practice makes perfect. She told us that she would rather play or read a book. We bought her books she enjoyed reading; one of which was the “Diary of a Wimpy kid” We even took her to see Kate DiCamillo when she told us she loved reading the book we gave her for her birthday, “Tale of Despereaux”. To my horror, when I took it upon myself to clean her room one day, the books we gave her were marked, dog-eared and mangled at the binding. I know it’s a small thing, but as a book-worm, it was heart-wrenching.

That was then. The summer came, and I’ve noticed she has gotten better about her attitude towards herself and her worldly possessions. She has been practicing her recorder. She does go out of tempo, but it was better than before. Her books are no longer in messy heaps. Her hair is looking healthier. Her table manners have improved. Sometimes, she would grab herself a book and sketch a copy of the cover instead of tracing over. Honestly, I am awfully proud of her. I can also hug her without a stench smearing on to me.

It was exactly what the professions have said, “Structure, positive reinforcement and most of all, patience.” The one virtue, I was never showered with when I was a child. Patience was all it took.

⁷ Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him: fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pass.
⁸ Cease from anger, and forsake wrath: fret not thyself in any wise to do evil.
⁹ For evildoers shall be cut off: but those that wait upon the Lord, they shall inherit the earth.
            ~ Psalm 37

I know I would be asking too much, but it wouldn’t hurt to wish she could do this everyday; not only when she wants something to gain from being “good”.

The Stress of raising a relentless child

The summer has begun and nothing has changed. I still have to make sure she has done her chores, made her own meals and performed her routines. Any parent who has not experienced fatigue, insomnia and depression, I applaud you with great awe.

It has recently been a debate whether or not she should be sent to my mother for the summer. The conclusion always ended up as a dismay. My mother doesn't need to have to raise another child; let alone her own grand-daughter. She had already raised four of her own and had suffered enough by doing so. Needless to say, I am bound to this child until the day she learns to grasp the concept that the whole world doesn't revolve around her.

We have tried positive reinforcement, counseling, impervious discipline and constant mentoring. This child will not budge a sense of acknowledgement of sages. There were moments I have to go to my own solace to sigh grievances and contemplate defeat. As much as I love to pamper her like a princess, I just cannot allow myself to leave her vulnerable to a cruel world. I never had, and I never will treat her like a princess. Yet, here she is demanding for it to be so.

My sanity has not been perverted, but my dreams have. Every fortnight or so, the scenery may differ, but they all end the same. I watch her die or find her dead. Sometimes, I ask myself if the dreams are a sign of premonition or if it's a worse case scenario assuming that she hasn't learned to scrutinize her own behavior. Amidst all this folly in my head, I am still the strict mother she refuses to adhere to. *scoffs* [needs to find a bare wall in the office to bang my head on]

If therapy isn't the solution, I don't know what is. My only resolution is life. Let nature take it's course. If she hasn't learned from her own life lessons... I rest my case.