Kung Fu fighting Nellie Oleson

At that same Chinese restaurant that I got the false fortune a few days ago, they had the standard Zodiac placemats. All of us looked up what we are and read the description. I've always hated mine. I'm a pig. So there I 'd be, a chubby kid at a restaurant, and I'd have to tell everyone "I'm a pig." Oh, the laughter at that. Such fun. Fuckers.

Well, some Chinese food genius figured out that calling an American a pig right before they order lunch makes for a much smaller bill. They've since changed the name from "pig" to "boar." I'm a boar now, thankyouverymuch, and I'll have the large order of kung pao.

Reilly Kate is a snake. Here's what it says about the snake: Wise and intense with a tendency toward physical beauty. Vain and high tempered. The Boar is your enemy.

In case you missed that, let me repeat it: The Boar is your enemy.

I'm a boar.

Now, I wouldn't exactly say that my oldest child and I are enemies. I love that kid with more ferocity than I ever imagined possible. It was she that changed my very soul, created me into a mother, turned my whole life on its end. She is the very center of my universe. She is the heart of our family.

And yet we just can't manage to get along. Not since the day she was born. We've clashed and collided, bringing down to our level anyone who foolishly stepped into our battle zone. We go together like vinegar and oil: we're hand in hand, nothing without the other, but just not mixing well. She's the vinegar: overpoweringly sour, sometimes downright bitter. I'm the oil: fat.

For a long time I mourned the whole mother-daughter best friends scenario I had painted in my head as soon as I found out that I was carrying a girl. There have never been girly days out shopping for pink dresses and hairbows. My daughter likes to think of herself as a boy and while she loves having long hair, would rather it unkept, wild and hanging in her face in a rocker from hell kind of way. She doesn't watch intently as I put on my make up each morning like I did as a child when my mom got ready. Although, Roman does that occasionally, it just isn't the same. We've given up on ballet in lieu of soccer and I don't know the first thing about that. Not that I really knew anything about ballet, either, but I think I could fake it better.

Instead, starting shortly after we arise from slumber each day, we start an ever so clever choreography of verbal tug-o-war regarding everything from what to eat for breakfast to the weather. No topic is too trivial, no hour too early for a good banter. She has even discovered a certain pitch at which she can talk, or howl depending on her mood, that cuts right through me like nails on a chalk board. She can do the same pitch with her whistle and insists that this one note is the only note she can do with her pursed lips. It's intentional. I know it.

The thing is that the more I see other kids her age with their parents, particularly their mothers, I appreciate our struggling relationship. Probably a byproduct of our sparring, we know each other well. Very well. I know what motivates her to lie and when she's liable to hit or not want to share. I know what it is that she does that irritates grown ups and she knows how far to push the limits. It doesn't even so much as cut down on the frustration that comes with dealing with kids this age, but at least I know.

So many times I hear other moms say, "Oh, Johnny would never do that," or "Suzy doesn't hit," or "No, no, he would never say such a thing," and, personal favorite, "We don't have a problem with that." Kids have their parents so conned and manipulated. They're sneaky little shits with dumb fucks for parents. The parents defend their kid even when they know they shouldn't, making excuses for piss poor behavior and disrespect that should be met with swift, unapologetic punishment. I see more and more of these beasts posing as angels at the playground all the time. At least my beast looks like a beast.

I call this phenomenon the Nellie Oleson after that character on Little House on the Prairie who looked sweet but was possessed by the devil and whose parents' enabled her diabolical ways. It seems this disease has been around since the beginning of time, the only difference being that in the past towns only had one or two families like this. Now, it seems, most families are like this.

If either of my kids stick their tongue out at an adult behind my back, I expect that adult to either admonish my kid immediately or to straight away make me aware and I will do it myself. But, as you may remember, Nellie Oleson would stick her tongue at anyone who dared enter her parents' store and her parents, instead of putting a stop to it, would believe her denial. This madness is epidemic and frightening.

And it only, apparently gets worse as the kids get older. So called "helicopter parents" hover over their college aged kids, calling their professors to discuss grades and school administrators should their precious ones run afoul of the policies. What's worse is these parents are proud of it, even sporting shirts and bumper stickers proudly proclaiming their stupidity. I'm all for soccer moms. It seems I have become one, albeit unwittingly. But come on, people. If your kid fucks up, he fucks up. Don't make excuses for him -- straighten his crooked ass out.

I guess we pigs and snakes have it easy in that regard. I won't make excuses for her and she won't want me to cling on when she leaves the nest. Perhaps in our dysfunction we've found the healthiest relationship of all.