My oldest child is a redhead, also known as a “ginger kid.” They say ginger kids do not have souls, but I know for a fact that she does. She stole mine during the potty training years. I had hoped to have her trained before her baby brother arrived, but I might as well have tried training an octopus to ice skate.
My daughter is not only a ginger kid, but she is also Ginger’s kid. When she got to college, the RA told her she could not refer to herself as a ginger kid because it was politically incorrect. She replied that her mother’s name is Ginger, but they said it still wasn’t appropriate. So, now, she either has to dye her hair, or I must change my name.
At the age of 21, she uses her strong will for good, rather than to torture her mother. She is in her junior year of college, majoring in political science and Arabic, and minoring in Spanish. She runs five miles a day, maintains a high GPA, and waited until she turned 21 to drink so that when she runs for president she won’t have anything questionable in her past. She flies around the country for political events, cooks five course meals for her roommates, and intends to move to the Middle East to “kick terrorist butt.” To be honest, I’m not even sure she really is my child. Now that I think about it, she is the only redhead in the family.
My 6-year-old, on the other hand, is lazy and argumentative. He watches too much T.V., and only gets dressed if someone forces him too. I have no doubt this child is mine. That apple did not far from the tree.
Daughter takes life much more seriously than I ever did. She called one day: “Mom, I have an opportunity to study Arabic in Morocco for a semester. It will complete my major as well as give me the opportunity to be immersed in the culture. What do you think?”“Um, I don’t know. Are Moroccan guys cute?”Not that I’m a woman who is waiting for her offspring to produce grandchildren, I just want the constant texting to stop. The only way I get any peace is by responding, “We could keep texting, but your father is feeling a little frisky.” This buys me an hour, which is great because that’s 45 minutes to myself.