I am a coward.
Oh, not in a lot of situations but I do detest confrontation. Nevertheless, sometimes I will screw my courage up and face it. Making a scene is not a favourite thing but sometimes you have to recognise that a scene is required and just go for it. I am embarrassing to be out with because I will make a point of trying to get dissatisfactions remedied.
So, my inner coward can be prevailed upon to don the lion suit and roar if I deem it truly necessary. Except, it appears, where my Number 1 Daughter is concerned.
Presently I am skulking in my room, dying to go to the bathroom, and yet not brave enough to let her know I am awake, lest the indepth analysis of my personality and my numerous shortcomings should be resumed. I wish she’d go to work.
In case you are wondering, this isn’t a new thing. It’s been happening ever since she hit puberty (or maybe even a few years before that). When I was married to her father, I used to routinely lock myself in the bathroom to get away from her following me around the house yelling at me. If I put the bathroom fan on high and concentrated very hard on making white noise inside my head, I couldn’t hear her at all.
I don’t get this. I deal with obnoxious people practically on a daily basis. I drive a huge vehicle through rush hour traffic, in major construction zones. I’ve been known to swim crocodile infested rivers. I stand up to bullies.
But her? She is scarier than them all.