Looking back on my life, I really could have used a Tiger Mom.
I'd be far more successful than I am now. It's a fact that the children of Tiger Moms begin to excel at 12 hours old. By six months, boys are designing interstellar spaceships on their Etch A Sketch and building them with Jenga blocks. By the time they reach my age (which I'm too embarrassed to reveal) they have done the work of several spectacular civilizations.
Meanwhile, I'm still testing the effects of the "breast" vs "bottle" on my intellectual development. My wife thinks it's weird, but she plays along.
And all this is my mom's fault.
On the brighter side, I'm thankful that I'm still here, because I had a Dingo Mom.
Survival is touch-and-go with a Dingo Mom. We started out with seven children and now there are five. I was one of the lucky ones. Rumours abound.
"Mom, I don't want to play hide and seek tonight. You bit me too hard last time. Gentle, mom. Bad mom."
I'm kidding, of course. Dingo Moms are only found in Australia.
My mom was more of a Chameleon Mom. She blended in with her surroundings, especially when it was time to feed me. She would take on the paisley pattern of the wallpaper or the hall rug or the liquor cabinet.
"Mom? I'm hungry. Where are you? I'd feed myself, but I can't walk yet. Did you see that? Did that wall just move? I want my mommy."
This isn't true either. My parents were fine. Abnormal in all the normal ways.
It was me. I was a Meerkat Kid. I stood around looking cute and confused. Hung out with all the other confused kids. Good posture. Not sure what to do with my hands.
Merely average.
