Be like me. Don't be like me.

In the last few weeks, the kids have been kids again — and were driving me up the walls with their shenanigans. They are 6 and 4, a fact my brain tends to ignore when I call them out on their bullshit. God, I wish they were older.1 And sometimes I wish they were more like me. And then again, sometimes I wish they were a bit less like me. Ultimately I want them to be better than me. I’m alright with what I’ve achieved and I’ve found my place in society, but I had to go through some tough times to get here. I’ve learned a lot and I still have enough quirks left that I wish I could just turn off. It’s wild that the things my kids do that trigger me the most are either “I never did this” or, “Fuck … that is so me and I wish it wasn’t.” Weirdly enough “I remember doing that, but I grew out of it”, triggers me way less. Maybe because I know that I grew out of it myself. I’m not sure if I have anything profound to say about this. I just find it fascinating, that at the same time, I want my…

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