My husband and I have never seen eye to eye when it comes to parenting styles.
My kid was only 5 when he came into her life after I left her abusive biological father.
You could say that their relationship was rocky from the start. She wouldn’t talk around him, preferring to whisper in my ear if she wanted some juice. He didn’t know how to break down her wall and bond with her.
They have never learned how to communicate with each other properly. Instead, they have always used me as a go-between.
I am more of a lackadaisical parent, the go with the flow type. I suppose that I have always tried to make up for her father being a douchebag, so I take it easy on her. I dislike confrontation and feel as though being gentle with her is more effective than coming at her like a honked off hurricane.
My husband is more balls to the wall, outraged if she doesn’t do the Cinderella thing daily, coming to me when she does something that ticks him off.
“Did she empty the dishwasher yet?”
“Hmm. It appears not.” Eyeroll.
Yes, my child is your typical 19 year old, who spends her life primarily doing 4 things: working, going to college, spending time with friends and sleeping.
And eating junk food.
She is rarely home these days. It’s normal as far as I can tell, because I was the same at that age. Home is a place to shit, shower and sleep. Housework is not a priority. Added tasks especially gets the feigned ignorance treatment.
“Oh, I was supposed to actually fold the laundry?”
My husband and I argue constantly about what she is or isn’t doing. It’s gotten to the point where I am actually (almost) looking forward to the day when she moves out, just so I can finally have some peace. The constant complaining from him irks the shit out of me.
I am thankful that we didn’t have a child of our own. It’s so much easier on the offspring when your parents are on the same wavelength.
There’s me, easy like Sunday morning.
And then there’s him, coming in like a wrecking ball.
I don’t doubt that they love each other, but there has always been some sort of odd animosity between them that I can’t quite figure out.
He waits up for her just like I do at night, worrying about what could happen to a young girl in such a crazy world.
She does nice things sometimes, like buying him a Cleveland Indians travel mug for Father’s Day.
All I can do is pop a Klonopin, swear a little (alright, a lot) and try not to scratch at my hives too much.