Begotten of the begotten

It's unreal that she is less than 9 weeks away. Little Yellow Gal.

I've been waiting to meet this person for several months. It feels like a blind date, in a strange way. I'm faced with similar questions: What will she look like? Will we get along? What kind of personality will she have? Will she love me? What if she thinks I'm a loser? (Okay, that is probably inevitable.)

The whole motherhood concept is inarticulable. As I anticipate the immense expense and commitment of having a daughter, I can't help but reflect upon how I was as a daughter. And, well, along with that, all the grief I caused my parents.

Not that I was an awful demon child. I didn't sneak out with boys at 2 am or smoke pot in my room. But I was an angsty teen. I complained a lot. I felt perpetually deprived of all the things I felt I deserved as an American adolescent. I didn't have as many or nice of clothes, receive as many Christmas gifts, or get to drive a new car like other kids did.

Oh, the injustice. And how I protested against this injustice -- through hours and days of whining, crying, door-slamming, and sulking.

It didn't matter that my parents first came to this country with barely the money to afford an apartment and food. I wanted the same shit everyone else had, and resented my parents -- yes, even hated them at times -- because I couldn't have those things, which I believed were the key to adolescent happiness.

You don't realize what you had . . . until you have to provide it for your own kid. The hubs and I are off to a better start than my parents were. Yet still, I can't imagine enduring all the demands of a teenage girl.

Do I dare admit that reflecting upon my imminent parenthood makes me a little bit more grateful for what they did for me? (Mmm, maybe later.)