During a string of particularly bad days concerning Ruthie’s behavior this summer, I vented to my girlfriend that I thought I was raising a future serial killer. At the time she was bullying and intimidating other kids, and finding great enjoyment in watching the reaction of others as they writhed in frustration under her torturous powers.
It’s like an experiment to her, a social experiment – perhaps she’s on the road toward a sociology research degree. Or maybe it’s pure entertainment and all she needs is a comfy chair and a bag of popcorn.
Regardless, I really do think she enjoys pushing other people’s buttons, then watching the ensuing explosion. Reducing others (including her mother) to a fit of tears is her idea of a good time. And the remorse? Oiy, the lack of remorse is, at best, disturbing.
So I vented to my friend, exaggerating, I’m sure, in my emotionally heightened feelings of failure as a mother – wondering, also, which gene pool this behavior came from.
The very pragmatic advice my friend gives me?
“Eh, you shouldn’t worry. If she starts torturing small animals, THEN you have something to worry about.”
Um, do TOY animals count in that equation???