I hurt my daughter this week, and I feel awful about it. I’m still a couple of years away from sponge baths and soft foods, but I feel that Melissa is sacrificing parts of her life because she feels the need to take care of me. I want her to meet a man. I want her to hear the pitter-patter of little feet, which means she either has to have more children, or we all have to play hide and seek with Peter Dinklage.
In any case, it’s time for me to get out from under her roof.
If I moved out on my own, Melissa would be crushed so I devised a plan to be so terrible and difficult that she’d have no choice but to throw me out! At first my scheme wasn’t working because nothing I did seemed to bother her. It was sort of like making faces at Stevie Wonder.
I devised a foolproof plan to enrage her – an extensive “zombie photo shoot” in her home. I got Melissa so angry, upset and stressed that I thought she was going to lose her mind. Aren’t I such a good mother?
Of course, like any other mother/daughter team, we can’t stay mad at each other forever, and I’m glad that’s the case.