There's a New-Fangled Com-Pyoo-Ter, But Otherwise, Place Looks the Same

We got a library at our house this weekend. The Girl took her books and categorized them. She labelled the shelves and distributed the books by section.

Our household was invited to sign up for library cards, and we could all choose books to borrow for three weeks.

(Her calm librarian's exterior was quite ruffled when no one came to the library, even though I protested that I had come twice to get books. She mournfully lamented that no one cares about libraries anymore these days, and restricted the borrowing period to three hours to try to drum up some more traffic.)

Now replace "this weekend" with "the Peitash house circa 1983" and "The Girl" with "Peitricia Mae" and you've got a fairly accurate picture of some golden moments in my childhood.

Seriously, the only difference is that her library is part of the computer age and we swipe our cards instead of waiting for the librarian to painstakingly write out our due date slips.

She's even got the same books in there, for goodness' sakes, as I've hung onto most of my favourites from those days. There Pippi, Five Little Peppers, and The Boxcar Children, for a start.

This certainly isn't an isolated case. I've seen lots of make-believe games from my past resurrected, usually without any prompting from me. Playing school runs in our DNA, and directing plays seems to be part of the gene pool.

It's spooky sometimes, how much she's like me. From the reading to the irrationality, the long body that ensures clothes are either too short or too wide to the love of routine that leaves us both whining if someone springs a schedule change on us. In some ways, it's great - I can understand what drives her and I know what will push her over the edge.

At the same time, parenting a mini-me presents a lot of challenges. I'm far too quick to impose my own limitations on her, assuming that just because I can't handle something, she won't be able to either. (Hello, swimming lessons!) I far too often try to step in between her and The Husband when I think that he's pushing her too hard because I hate being pushed. But lo and behold, a little push and she's often on her way.

Speaking of pushed, here's my not-mini-me, demonstrating just how very unlike his mother he is by embracing one of life's challenges. The Girl, no surprise, has yet to accomplish this feat.