My daughter wants to be Angelina Jolie when she grows up. That’s not how she puts it. She doesn’t even know who Angelina is. But she’s been telling me for years that she wants to “adopt nine or ten kids someday, from all over the world.” I guess that as long as she doesn’t take up any other Angelina tendencies, like making out with a cousin or blowing up her lips to look like two boffing slugs, I think it’s pretty cool.
I’m happy when my daughter tells me she aspires to having kids. It makes me feel like I’m making this gig look easy, which it isn’t, and rewarding, which it is. Interestingly enough, a Living Social psychic tried to tell me a couple of months ago that my daughter was “going to have kids at an early age.” I pressed the woman for details, and she said, “Not too young, maybe around 19.” Excuse me? Because this woman feels that 19 is a reasonable age to have babies—and because she had to ask if I had kids in the first place—it was easy to laugh her off.
The great and wise man-child Justin Bieber tells us we should never say never, but I feel pretty good that my daughter’s not going to fulfill that psychic’s prophecies. However, she might just fulfill her own. I see the kind of sister, daughter, and friend she is, and I just know she’s going to be damn good at motherhood when it’s her turn. And, hey, just look at this list of “Possible Jobs” she made last week:
The last item on that list has “motherhood internship” written all over it. Being a mom to a deserted baby penguin seems like a half-okay set of training wheels for actual motherhood, right? I love my girl’s optimism, her bold vision. Part rose-colored glasses, part bad-ass, I’d say she’s totally on the right track to fulfilling her dream.