Like my mother does.

All things considered, I think I turned out pretty well as a young(ish) adult. I never really swore around my parents until well after I moved out of the house and only used the word “fuck” in my mother’s presence twice that I can recall and only ever because I forgot to do something or injured myself. Sure, I lead a very privileged life  - being an only child does have some perks after all – but I’ve also been told on more than one occasion that I am an incredibly hard worker. This gives me allowances to a bit [read: a lot] of a princess sometimes.

And in my opinion, being a hard worker and being a princess kiiiiiinda cancel each other out.

Yes, I had all the pretty Polly Pockets, My Little Ponies and the Barbie Dream House but I never got the pony my father promised me and I’ll tell you, it had nothing to do with my allergies.

That being said, I wasn’t and am not, by my fairly recently-revised definition of the word – ie. when I realized that almost  of my university friends had their parents paying for their entire post-secondary education AND their credit cards bills – a spoiled brat. My mom bought me a car when I was in the pageant, I won’t deny it, but when I finally got around to selling the hunk of crap it had become, I gave her the whopping $1000 [I’m fairly certain the guy over-paid] we got for it and that was that.

I had luxuries; 15 minute parental controlled intervals of AOL dial-up internet, extended curfew (cough-midnight-cough) if my parents/step(ish) parents liked who I was going out with and my mom alllways baked me the most extravagant birthday cakes I’d ever seen pre-Cake Boss. We’re talking full-on 101Dalmatian cake shaped like a dalmatian here, people. 

But I wasn’t one of those people who had everything handed to them. I was just fortunate enough to always have someone there to catch me when I fell.

I also don’t think I ever really appreciated how much I (unknowingly) put my mother through. 

……. until I got kittens. 

For the past month I’ve been fostering 2 adorable baby kitties that were rescued from a animal shelter in Hamilton. And in less than 30 seconds, I fell absolutely crazy, stupid [in] love with them. 

Side note: this actually gives me hope for eventually not shuddering in the face/at the thought of children. And of not having to fake adoration when people show me photos upon photos of their/their sister/cousin/friend/neighbour’s questionably-darling children. There’s only so many times I can “Awww, adorrrable” before it starts to sounds contrived. And that number is one.

Yes, they’ve been extremely mischievous but no matter how many times I’ve caught them playing with my hair extensions or chewing on my Michael Kors bag, it’s impossible for me to get mad.

I can only assume my mother never picked me up and snuggled me after I pulled tampons out of her purse in the grocery store, but I can imagine - being a semi-mother myself now - that she secretly thought the little bratty things I did were hilarious or cute. At least some of the time. 

Except maybe getting suspended from school for beating up a boy or drawing on my neighbour’s car windows with soap bars on numerous Devil’s Nights. 

I can only assume that being raised properly - saying please and thank you, working hard, being honest and having good morals - had everything to do with how I’ve managed to keep the kitties alive for this long. 

And I can only assume that my father had nothing to do with this.

Shocker.