My daughter is working on a puzzle. It isn’t coming together. She is two and a half years old.
The puzzle is of a dinosaur. She is trying to attach the tail directly to the neck. I am not a palaeontologist but this doesn’t fit my memory of the Tyrannosaurus.
It’s important to let her figure it out, though. She’s too headstrong to let me help, anyway. So, I sit and I watch, and I listen to her say “gosh” and “come on” to the dinosaur puzzle.
These are my noises of frustration. Usually, they’re applied to more important situations than a dinosaur puzzle. Not that much more important, though.
Not in the long run. The problem is, there is now a small person who’s half me and that half is starting to shine through. Credit: Getty Images/iStockphoto When you write comedy for a living, self-loathing is not so much an occupational hazard as one of the many tools in my work belt.
It has its utility, and it is also what I am best at. After all, I’ve put in well over ten thousand hours into the process. The problem is, there is now a small person who’s half me and that half is starting to shine through.
At first, I could only ever see her mother in her, as I try to look for the best in people. But as her personality begins to blossom, I am seeing more and more of myself in there. She never looks more like me than when she’s about to do something she knows is wrong.
Her cheeky face is my cheeky face. This makes sense. What are children if not divine vengeance? Lo.