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? Loading Now I find myself in somewhat of a paradox.
I’ve spent so much of my life sharpening my claws against myself. Only to find several of the things I dislike the most have wormed their way into this tiny not-sleeping sleeper agent, whom I love more than anything. She walks around mumbling her thoughts aloud, just like me.
She wants all of the attention all of the time, just like me. She has to wear nappies to bed, which is her own habit, that bit was not learned behaviour. I do not find it difficult to love these little habits when she exhibits them.
Perhaps it’s a similar feeling to seeing someone show up at a party in the same outfit as you, but they’re wearing it better. Well done, you. That really works for you.
Could it be that certain things are simply more charming when they are done by a curly-haired toddler and not a 33-year-old man who absolutely should know better by now? Look, it’s a possibility and we’d be foolish to rule it out entirely..
