When my best friend found out I was having a girl, she laughed.  With a long finger extended in the direction of my nose she cackled, “This is your ultimate payback for all the horrible things you did as a kid.  She’s going to be just like you!” 

If I thought it was possible and if I didn’t see some resemblance in her eyes to her father’s sister, I would believe that my daughter was a product of me and only me.  My friends have nicknames for her like, “Mini-Sheesha”, “Little Licita”, and “eL. 2”.  Truly, my little girl is my carbon copy, minus the sarcasm and potty mouth (for now).  She is everything good about me in a miniature package.

As a parent, you do many things for the sake of your children that you would NEVER do under any other circumstances.  I would lie, kill, and steal if necessary to protect or provide for my kids.  Recently, the test of true parental love was presented… I took my daughter to see Hannah Montana.  While I will admit that I hate Hannah far less than the likes of Dora, Barney, and the entire Wiggles troupe my attention span waned during the show.  About every twenty minutes, she would elbow me and hiss a stern, “Mom!” rolling her eyes at the texting conversation I was engaged in. 

As she grew tired, she curled up under my arm and rested her head against my chest.  She entwined her tiny fingers with my own and I noted the similarities in even the shape of our hands. 

I zoned out and began to half-heartedly talk… beg… pray to God.  Please God… don’t let her be the same pain in the ass that I was. OK… the pain in the ass that I STILL AM.  How do I teach her how to be the things that I am not?  Patient, self-controlled, organized, ladylike, a morning person…

About that time, she looked up at me with sleepy eyes as Miley Cyrus belted out another winey, overused lyric.  “Thanks Mom, for bringing me to Hannah Montana.”

And for a split second I realized maybe I’m not off to a bad start.