My mom used to grab my face and squish it between her hands, roll me like dough and say, “You are the most special, amazing, perfect child. You can do ANYTHING!”

And I’d think: shucks, really? Wow. Makes sense, I guess.

This got me in trouble often. I not only believed this about myself–harmful enough–but I believed others ought to believe it about me. After all, I could do anything. Why not do this?

One of my earliest memories involves a series of challenges I issued in grade school. I was obsessed with the idea that I could beat any boy in a fight. The only problem was, no boys would fight me. There was an honor system in my hometown when it came to women, even young ugly ones like me. You couldn’t hit them unless you got married, first.

“I’m just as strong as you,” I’d bellow in line at the cafeteria after someone in front of me had provided ‘backsies,’ a sick twist on letting someone go in front of you in line where you like, don’t do that, but let them in front of the person behind you.

It was the source of much amusement. As was my response of imitation karate slow mo movements.

I would plan for minutes at a time, is my point. Then, I would act. I could do anything, after all.

It culminated mostly in me deciding to make a summer camp for the neighborhood kids.

I actually did plan for more than a minute, this time around. I had to, as I needed others to be in on my plan, and others required more time than I did. I held a meeting in my room. My mom thought it was so cute, and brought us snacks and juice, and I told everyone what it was we were going to do, and they shrugged and said sure. Then, I busted out the paper and markers and we got to work making flyers.

My mom didn’t stop me until the neighbors down the street had called, interested in enrolling their two young girls in our five dollar a day summer camp, meant to take place in our backyard.

“You can’t actually do this…” my mom said cautiously. She was big on gentle parenting, time ins, not crushing my absurd dreams. Saying no to me stressed her out.

I was angry. “What do you mean I can’t? I’m already doing it.”

She sighed, glanced away and then back. Then leaned in close, and said to me, like it was an embarrassing secret, “When I was your age, I tried something similar, alright?”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I… tried to start a hospice.”

I stared at her, “A what?”

“A hospice is a place that takes care of dying people. I was so passionate about it, too, I felt it had to be done, that we had to do it, and-“

“Mom, that’s so weird…”

“I know! I know, ok? But I had to be told I was too young, too.” She sighed, looked away. “Someday you can start a camp. Someday, when you’re grown, and… have more experience. Not now though, ok?”

I was furious.

‘Someday’ was when I would do everything, it seemed. Everything except the ultimate requirement of her spawn–be the same kind of sacrificial angel that tries to start a hospice at age 12. I hated her.

When she was dying of brain cancer, all those years later, she asked me at one point if there was anything I was still mad about. She said it offhand, and I knew she didn’t mean it. I would’ve been mad if I hadn’t killed that part of myself to survive. What kind of time did she think we had?

“Nothing. It’s fine, Mom. I’m fine.”

“No, no. Tell me. Tell me if there’s anything, anything you’re still mad about.”

“Um, I dunno. I guess I wish you’d changed my school when I was being bullied, like I kept asking?” I threw out there. I had been mad about this maybe a lifetime ago. I didn’t care anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.

A silence. She snorted. “Ok,” she said. “I guess I’m sorry, then, whatever,” she snapped, and that was that.

Ha.